Beauty and the Beast: A Freak Show Fairytale
by NotMarge
Summary: Angelica Mayweather went wandering alone out in the dark one night and came home with a new friend. AU.
1. Beauty and the Beast

I do not own American Horror Story: Freak Show.

But I couldn't not write after seeing _that_ picture.

Beauty and the Beast: A Freak Show Fairytale

* * *

Howling, howling.

Howling in the dark.

The night was dark and full of stars. The moon overhead hung high and misshapen.

Angelica Mayweather moved carefully, cautiously, but without fear through the wild woods.

She had never been afraid of anyone or anything in her short, eventful life.

She wasn't super strong. Rather on the opposite end, she was a slight slip of a girl with straight, silky, honey blond hair.

She wasn't armed. She wasn't chaperoned by anyone save perhaps some wakeful midnight angels.

She just simply knew she was tougher than anyone else alive.

And that childish, foolish belief just might get her killed some deep, dangerous night.

But tonight was not that night.

And so she moved through the darkness, silent and shadowy.

Listening to the howling.

It was odd.

It all melded together in undulating, discordant harmony.

But part of it stood out.

Like a human, a child, pretending. Playing. Imitating the wolf.

And she moved forward.

Toward the outlying cabin set in the still clearing, dark and still in the wee hours.

And the restless, trapped pack caged in the low, dirty metal-barred enclosure yards away.

They turned, nearly as one, at her slow, even approach.

There were four, maybe five dogs. Big, wiry.

And they started to growl, low and dangerous.

A normal ten year old would have been terrified, in a state of sheer panic.

Angelica Mayweather was no typical ten year old.

And the wolves sensed it, for they stopped their threats.

And watched her with silent, yellow eyes.

From inside a cage so small they could barely sit or turn.

And her rage flared.

The lock was flimsy and rusted and she broke it with a discarded hammer.

The wolves dropped their shaggy heads as she eased the door open.

They slunk out, keeping their eyes trained suspiciously on her.

Before melting away into the darkness.

The last turned back toward the corner of the now nearly empty cage.

Issued a low 'woof'.

Waited a fraction of a second longer.

Then followed its comrades into the waiting night.

Angelica peered toward where the wolf had called.

Among the piles of bones and fecal matter, a figure hovered.

Small, wispy.

Not a wolf.

Something else.

A boy.

Filthy and covered in grime.

Greasy hair nearly obscuring in his dirt streaked face.

Crouched, huddled in the corner of the cage.

Whimpering for his pack.

Like a lost wolfcub.

"Hey," she called softly into the dark space.

At the sound of her voice, his whimpering stopped.

He raised his head and though his eyes did not gleam as the wolves', she could sense him looking at her.

"Hey," she surreshed again. "Hey, come on out. It's okay. You're free."

He did not move.

She stood and thought for a long moment.

Opened the pouch around her tiny skirted waist.

Removed a hunk of jerky.

Bit off a small piece.

Held it aloft for the boy to see.

Then laid it down on the cleanest bit of grass she could find just outside the cage.

Backed up a few feet and sat down to wait.

She watched his wary progression toward the proffered dried meat.

On two legs but hunched, shuffling .

Uncertain and unsure.

But moving forward nonetheless.

When he reached the jerky, he lowered his head down to sniff it.

Then he snatched it up in his hand and gulped it down.

Angelica didn't move.

He was emaciated and covered in bruises.

Bruises, not bites.

The wolf pack had not attacked him or he would have been dead.

His bruises were those from being jostled to and fro in a close quartered group.

Here, on the edge of the Kentucky Appalachians, people did all sorts of horrible things to each other.

Though she had never seen a boy caged like an animal.

Had the owner of the cabin put him in there as punishment?

Did he belong to him?

She didn't know and she didn't care.

Instead, she snuck forward.

The boy stayed put, watching her every movement.

She inspected the immediate surroundings.

Found a gas can.

Matches.

Encircled the perimeter of the cabin with the pungent fluid.

And dropped the lit flame.

* * *

 **Hello all!**

 **Yeah, I wrote another one. Go figure.**

 **Actually, this a bit more of a collaborative effort between me and a very talented writer. But we'll get to that. ;)**

 **It's very AU, though most of our FS people are there, albeit in slightly different roles and forms. And as you can surmise from the picture, Angelica Mayweather is young Taissa Farmiga and the boy in the cage is young Evan Peters.**

 **Well, I'm sure you'll let me know what you think. 'S what I like about you guys.**

 **Everybody appreciates feedback. Leave a review if you like. :)**


	2. Passing Inspection

I do not own American Horror Story: Freak Show.

But I couldn't not write after seeing _that_ picture.

Beauty and the Beast: A Freak Show Fairytale

Passing Inspection

* * *

"And just where have _you_ been, missy?"

Ethel Darling didn't sound mad.

Not exactly.

Just . . . irritable and protectively curious.

Her piercing blue eyes glared daggers at the trapped Angelica before her.

Feral boy huddling slightly behind.

"Well, I was, um-"

The bearded lady put her hands on her broad hips.

"You were wandering around at night again, weren't you?"

The girl pressed her lips together tightly.

And nodded.

Fully expecting a beating 'for her own good'.

Instead, she recieved a disgusted 'humphf', courtesy of Ethel Darling, owner and proprietor of The Darling Carnival of Wonders.

"Am I gonna have to lock you up in your trailer again at night to keep you safe?"

Behind her, Angelica thought she heard a whisper of a boyish growl at the woman's threatening tone.

"No," she replied quietly. Then muttered, "And it wouldn't keep me in anyway."

The woman in dark men's pants and a white shirt rolled up to her elbows humphfed again.

At the truth in the statement.

And ghosted a smile.

Then she sighed and jerked her chin.

"Well, whaddya got this time?"

The girl sighed her relief at the change of topic and turned to the boy.

He wasn't completely feral.

She had brought him back to camp in the wee hours of the morning.

Stolen food from the mess tent.

Fed him bread and goat's milk.

Snuck him into the lantern-lit wash tent.

Cleaned him. Brushed the shaggy mess of his dark blond hair as gently as she could. Put fresh(er) clothes on him.

All the while, he had remained quiet and still.

Staring at her with the darkest, deepest eyes she had ever seen, save her own.

And then she had snuck him into her trailer, the one she had shared with her mother.

Except her mother was gone, off and vanished with Dell and Delilah since Lexington.

She had made a pallet for the boy on the floor next to her bed and made him lie down on it.

Then she had fallen asleep for a few hours with his glittering eyes trained upon the pale oval of her face in the dark.

And when the sun had risen, she had taken him to Ethel Darling.

And here they were.

And Ethel's hawk sharp eyes below her neatly brushed gray hair and above her dyed brown beard, searched the boy.

Weighing him.

Measuring him.

And finding him wanting.

"Looks half-starved."

Angelica nodded.

"He was."

The boy did not meet the gaze of this new person, but kept his eyes trained on the ground.

"What's his name?"

Name, name.

Angelica hadn't considered the necessity of a name.

The boy was who he was, no matter the word she put with him.

But Ethel was right. He needed a name.

She had named so few things in her life.

She better make it a good one.

She searched him for inspiration but he only raised his eyes to hers and gazed into them silently.

"Michael," she declared suddenly, turning back to her waiting matron. "His name is Michael. The Angelfaced Wolfboy."

The bearded lady shifted her attentions between the two of them for the merest span of a century before replying.

"Michael, huh?"

Angelica simply nodded.

"Where'd you find him?"

The girl hesitated only a fraction of a second.

"In a cage. With wolves."

Ethel's eyes flashed rage as she glanced from girl to boy and back again.

Her lips thinned. Jaw clenched.

And she searched the distant horizon, infuriated thoughts a mystery.

Finally she looked back.

"Portion and a half at mealtimes for the next week then. We don't need him eating Meep's chickens for him."

Angelica's little heart lept.

"We'll request Paul bunk him."

Again Angelica nodded, relieved.

The tinny radio, riddled with static and ghosts of broadcasts past, cut through their reveries.

" . . . who set the blaze late last night that consumed the cabin but local law enforcement says . . ."

Ethel's gaze fell once more on the pair as they now both studied the suddenly intriguing textures and grains of Ethel's old wooden caravan.

"Don't suppose _you'd_ know anything about that," the carnival owner intoned calmly to the pair before her.

Angelica looked at her without speaking.

Ethel finally nodded, seeming regretfully accepting.

"Well, guess we'd better pack up and head out soon enough then. Shows been slow 'round here anyway."

Then she turned to the boy. Snapped her fingers in his face.

His eyes shot to hers, startled and wary.

"Boy, you do as this girl tells you. Any trouble, any danger, we leave you here, trussed to a tree for the nearest boys' home to pick up. Hear?"

He made no sound, blinked not an eye.

Angelica placed a reassuring hand on his wrist and addressed the adamant woman.

"He'll be fine, Ethel. We'll be fine."

Ethel Darling nodded and turned away to begin departure preparations.

Angelica Mayweather led Michael, the Angelfaced Wolfboy, away.

And that was that.

* * *

 **Like I could ever leave Ethel Darling out of a Freak Show fic. *shakes head at silly notion***

 **Most appreciative thanks to BlackButlerFan13, Bumblebee93, and midnightrebellion86 for giving this major** **AU a chance. Thanks, you guys. :)**


	3. Mary Had a Little Lamb

I do not own American Horror Story: Freak Show.

But I couldn't not write after seeing _that_ picture.

Beauty and the Beast: A Freak Show Fairytale

Mary Had a Little Lamb

* * *

In his first days with the Darling Carnival of Wonders, the newly-christened Wolf Boy does three important things.

He eats.

He sleeps.

He follows Angelica Mayweather.

To the cook tent.

To the wash house.

To the big top.

But only when those places are quiet. Empty.

He's yet to say a word to anyone.

The only eyes he meets are Angelica's.

She is the only thing he seems to see.

* * *

Lunch is long over.

The cook tent is empty, except for the bearded lady. Ethel sits at the picnic table and sips at another cup of coffee.

Watches them.

The tall girl and the taller boy. Their long hair, tangled and blowing in the humid, early summer breeze.

Strolling through the tall grass toward the muddy little lake.

Angelica talking, gesturing. Painting pictures in the air with her small, graceful hands.

Even from a distance, Ethel can see him listening.

Leaning toward her.

Focused on her every word.

Paul the Illustrated Seal drops onto the seat beside Ethel's. Raises his own coffee cup in salute.

"What's new, boss?"

Ethel sighs. Cocks a thumb toward the pair in the field of grass.

Paul grins. "That ain't new. Same old story, more like. Mary an' her little lamb."

"Long as he's not a wolf in sheep's clothing."

"Odd duck, no doubt. But seems harmless enough. Devoted to her. But Ethel, if you're worried, I could-"

Ethel shakes her head. Strokes at her beard. "No, let's give it time. He might be what she needs. She's been so restless since her mama up and left. Wanderin' at night. Takin' charge of him seems to be settlin' her some. And him close by all the time'll hold off the rubes who've started sniffin' around her. Let's just keep an eye on 'em. Wait and see."

Paul nods. "You're the boss. But maybe it wouldn't hurt to get a closer look. See if he'll talk to anyone but little miss."

Ethel snorts. "Or talk at all. I still ain't heard him more'n growl."

Paul tips her a wink. Stands and ambles off, for all the world like a man just strolling aimlessly. Until he takes up a post at the stack of firewood piled between the meadow and the cook tent.

By the time the wanderers approach, he's bent over, picking up wood from the pile. He straightens up. Sticks out his lower lip, blowing an artfully flustered little puff of air at the hair flopping over his forehead.

Gives them his winning smile.

"Oi, Angel. Think you and your friend could help me out right quick?"

At the sound of his voice, Michael's hand steals forward. Angelica doesn't look back, but seems to sense the gesture, the need. She takes his hand in hers and pulls him closer.

"Sure, Paul," she says. Voice calm.

Directing her words to the man.

But talking to the boy.

Making him see that it's safe.

Angelica turns to face Michael. Gently pulls his arms up and out. Pushes his elbows inward, so that his curved arms are the width of the chunks of stovewood.

Paul hands over the short branch in his hands, and she lays it carefully across Michael's outstretched arms.

"Thanks, mate," Paul smiles. " 'Preciate it. Not a job I've got the build for, as you can see."

Michael is silent, eyes on the wood lengths accumulating in his arms.

Except when he's stealing glances at Angelica's face.

She smiles reassuringly.

Paul keeps up an easy, comfortable patter.

"It's good to have another man in camp. Miss Angel here's a right stevedore, but the more hands we got, the lighter the work. Glad to have ya, son."

Angelica reaches out to squeeze Paul's hand in appreciation.

Michael's eyes follow the touch, and Paul can feel them.

Assessing him.

"Just stack it up over there by the stove, love. Thanks to the both of ya. Gotta have Suzi set and ready if we want her to make us flapjacks in the morning, right?"

Paul waves at the two, leaves them to their work. Saunters back toward the picnic table.

"Well?" Ethel asks.

Paul cocks his head, considering. "Half wolf, half sheep. All guard dog. All -hers-, that's certain. He's the kind that only heeds one master, and she's it. I pity the man tries to interfere with her while he's around."

"Fine, then," Ethel nods in satisfaction. "At least for now, he's hired."

* * *

Angelica takes the last piece of wood from Michael's arms. Brushes the dirt from his sweaty skin and smiles.

"I'm hot. Want to get a drink and go lay in the shade a while?"

She's watching his face for an answer, when

"Yes," he says simply.

Voice low and sweet, despite the rust of long disuse.

"What?" she splutters. Shocked.

"Yes," he repeats.

And smiles.

* * *

 **As you can probably tell, this is not my writing.**

 **Hmmm, what did she do? Did she nick somebody else's story?**

 **Kidnap some poor fanfic author and hold them at cyber Nerf gunpoint, forcing them to write as she petitioned for the return of the McRib?**

 **Nope! I'm proud to say I'm collaborating with the wonderfully talented DinahRay on this story and this brilliance is her chapter! Isn't it awesome?!**

 **So show her some support and encouragement in a review, yeah? 'Cause she is just fabulous!**


	4. More Suitable Arrangements

I do not own American Horror Story: Freak Show.

But I couldn't not write after seeing _that_ picture.

Beauty and the Beast: A Freak Show Fairytale

More Suitable Arrangements

* * *

"Okay, missy . We need to talk."

And there was Ethel again. White men's shirt again. Dark pants again. Stern bearded face again.

Angelica set down her work and faced her matron with no idea what to expect.

Except she was probably about to inform her of something.

Ethel Darling took a deep breath.

And sighed.

"I don't think your ma's coming back, Angel."

Angelica kept her face a careful blank.

Ma. Ma and Dell and Delilah.

Disappeared without a trace. Gone without a note or a care or a song.

Just _gone_.

Angelica had decided she didn't care. Woman never was much of a mother anyway.

More interested in bottles and opium and men than mothering.

Not that Angelica knew any better.

And had decided she didn't care to either.

"Yeah? So?"

Ethel's face was inscrutable.

"It's not good for a child to be alone."

Angelica raised a defiant eyebrow.

"I'm not alone. I've got Michael."

It was true.

Ethel had sent him to bunk with Paul that first night.

And Paul'd greeted him warmly.

"Welcome, mate. I'm Paul. Got a bunk for ya. Not much but it's warm enough and you'll be outta the elements."

Ignoring the short armed man's charming smile, Michael had ducked his head away and peered at Angelica in silent petition.

She had pasted an expression of brave encouragement on her face, belying the reservations she had about letting go of him.

Him she'd only known a day.

Him with the deep, dark eyes.

Him so all alone.

Him of the woves.

Him.

But she'd gone then. Back to her own bunk. And her mother's trailer had seemed that much emptier, that much lonelier.

And she had fallen into a restless sleep.

Only to awaken in the middle of the night to a certainty that she must open her front door.

Turning on a lamp near a chair made the sleepy shadows dance as she made her way to the door.

Opening it, she had peered around.

And seen him.

Michael.

Curled up in her bottom step like a human puppy.

Asleep in the dirt.

Curled at the foot of her trailer.

In her little girl nightgown, she had crept down the few steps.

Bent down, straight hair hanging like a curtain, darker in the moonlight. And touched his shoulder.

He had lifted his head and gazed at her with those deep, dark boy eyes.

And she thought she had seen relief.

She had risen and he with her.

And without speaking, had taken his hand and guided him back into the trailer.

Closed the door.

Hugged him tight. While he stood statue-still.

And made his pallet.

He had laid down on it, looking up at her above him.

"You're supposed to be with Paul."

He had only gazed silently.

"We'll be in trouble in the morning."

No response from the silent boy on the floor.

"But I'm glad you're here."

He watched her.

"Good night, Michael."

She'd turned off the light.

Climbed into bed.

And closed her eyes.

He hadn't. Not for a long time.

She had awakened to banging on her trailer door.

Stumbled over an awakening Michael.

And opened the door to a slightly agitated Paul.

"Angel, he's gone! I dunno what happened! I fell asleep and when I woke up, he'd disappeared!"

For a second, Angelica considered playing up the drama and _really_ causing an outcry.

Then she felt Michael step up behind her and saw Paul's face flip from concern to confusion.

"He showed up in the middle of the night," she explained simply.

And Paul stared.

"Bloody hell, mate," he said finally, with something of an edge of irritation . "You might want to give a bloke a warning."

And, somewhat abashed, Paul went off, apparently done with the pair of them.

Since then, Michael'd just stayed.

And nobody had said a word. Until now.

And now that someone had, Angelica wasn't quite done saying herself.

"And I'm not a _child_."

Ethel almost smiled despite herself. But that would've offended the girl.

So she didn't.

"Maybe not," she conceded, a little more gently. "But lotsa folks here at camp would sleep easier with you properly looked after."

Angelica scoffed and Ethel ignored her.

"I've talked to her and Suzi has invited you to share her trailer."

Angelica tilted her head.

"And Michael?"

There was very long pause which Ethel seemed to have decided not to answer the question.

"And Michael," she replied finally.

* * *

Legless Suzi had offered to shelter Angelica Mayweather out of the goodness of her heart. Because no child should be alone.

However, it had taken some conjoling on the part of her her employer, Ethel Darling, to accept Michael into the arrangement as well.

"But, Ethel," she worried aloud. "He's a _boy._ And a coupla years older than her by the look of him. What if he . . ."

She gestured vaguely in the air, having so little intimate interaction in her life due to her condition that she really was at a loss.

Ethel smiled, tight-lipped and dry witted.

"Oh, I don't think we'll have any trouble with him trying to hump her leg . . ."

Suzi blanched then reddened dramatically.

" . . . just yet. He's too timid around her. He just wants her company for now, I think."

She paused, then gave Suzi what she intended to be an encouraging smile.

"Besides, Angelica would knock him through the window if he sniffed around her without permission. And she doesn't seem to have . . . awakened to that part of life yet."

Suzi seemed to rally and gather herself.

"Well, it would be nice to have a little help around here. And it does get quiet in the middle of the night."

Ethel nodded.

"If you can slow them down. She decides to show him something new and they just disappear."

Which brought the boy/girl aspect right back around again.

Suzi, a chronic worrier by nature, bit her lip.

Seemed to think about it.

And nodded.

"Well, if you think it'll be okay . . ."

Ethel nodded reassuringly.

"I do. For now."

* * *

 **Thanks to King Reeses, anonymouscsifan, and The Cry-Wank Kid for reviewing and showing some love to a new chapter and fantastic new fanfic author! You guys are great! :D**

 **Okay, so this chapter and the next is back on me. Hope you enjoy and see you guys again soon, yeah?**


	5. The Grand Tour

I do not own American Horror Story: Freak Show.

But I couldn't not write after seeing _that_ picture.

Beauty and the Beast: A Freak Show Fairytale

The Grand Tour

* * *

Michael the Angel Faced Wolf Boy wakes before it's fully light outside.

Stretches his arms above his head, and arches his long, limber back. Curls and uncurls his fingers and toes.

Listens to the soft, even sounds of Angelica Mayweather's breathing.

Then to her shifts and stirs and mutters, as she slowly rejoins the waking world.

Michael waits.

When at last she leans over the side of her bed, he's looking up at her, dark eyes wide and alert.

She smiles, still drowsy. "After breakfast, I want to show you something."

* * *

They sit at a picnic table in the corner, by themselves. It's where, and how, he's most comfortable.

Michael drains his mug of goat's milk immediately. Angelica grins and pushes her own across the table. She gives a low whistle and catches the eye of the Illustrated Seal, who saunters over.

"G'mornin', love," he winks, setting his cup of coffee next to Angelica's plate. "If Ethel catches you stuntin' your growth, you didn't get it from me. And you didn't see a thing, right, Michael? Too busy tuckin' in to our Suzi's home cookin'."

He pats them both on the shoulder and strolls away to pour himself a new cup.

Michael, unschooled and unskilled with forks and knives, eats Suzi's famous hotcakes with his hands. But they're scrubbed clean now.

After the first few meals, he realized that the food would not be snatched away by someone bigger. He no longer shields his plate and gobbles.

Progress.

Angelica is planning to introduce him to spoons soon.

But not today.

Today is for expanding his horizons in other ways.

When they've finished, she stands. Pulls him up with both hands.

"C'mon," she says. "It's 1953, my friend. It's about time you rode a merry-go-round."

The look of puzzlement on his face makes her want to cry.

* * *

They start with something easy.

The empty big top.

Exploring. Taking their time.

Michael looks around, wide-eyed.

They weave through the rows of wooden chairs that face the stage.

"This is where the audience sits. The rubes who come to watch the show. Ethel and Evie and everybody...they're up there, performing."

"You?" Michael asks. "Performing?"

"Not yet," Angelica answers, scuffing one sneakered toe against a mosquito bite on her ankle. "But I will be. I've gotta earn my keep. I've just got to figure out how."

A smoky laugh trills through the still, humid air.

"And what kind of performance will you give, liebling? What talent will you reveal, eh?"

The blond in the blue dress puts a hand on her hip and cocks one thin-arched eyebrow.

"Michael, this is Miss Elsa Mars. She's a-"

"A chanteuse, my dear, and a charmer of snakes." She steps closer, puts a hand on Michael's shoulder. He tenses, poised to flee. "You are the Wolf Boy, yes? I am very talented with wild creatures. You come to my tent and I show you my pets."

Angelica steps between them, drawing herself up to her full height. "I'll bring him to the show, Elsa. But right now we have to go."

The snake charmer laughs again as they make their escape.

The midway is a wonder.

"Wait til dark, when all the little lights come on," Angelica promises. "Wait til you smell the cotton candy."

Michael cranes his neck to goggle at the banners, one for each performer, six feet high and painted in vivid colors. He squints, eyes dazzled at the riot of color.

"I helped paint 'em," Angelica says with pride. "That's Barbara, and Eve-see how hers is taller than the others? That was my idea. And Elsa and Paul, and Suzi of course...I'll introduce you to the ones you haven't met yet."

"All...here?" Michael questions. "Now?"

"Well, yeah," Angelica says with a grin, and lightly flicks at his elbow with the backs of her fingers. "Haven't you noticed them all running around? Didja think I lived here all by myself?"

Michael studies her face. "I just saw you," he replies.

Angelica holds his eyes for as long as she can, feeling a flutter in the pit of her stomach. Like riding to the top of the ferris wheel when it's cranked up as fast as it'll go.

* * *

Angelica flits from tent to field to food-stand, never letting go of Michael's hand, and before his head stops spinning he has been briefly introduced to roustabouts named Chet and Frank and Sloppy Joe. To Toulouse and to Barbara and Amazon Eve.

Angelica, wise enough to keep her expectations modest, counts each meeting a success: Michael clutched her fingers tightly and managed not to bolt in panic.

After a moment's conversation with the giantess, Angelica makes their apologies, squeezing Michael's hand as they walk away.

"That's all," she whispers. "No more today, I promise," and the relief on his face is plain to see.

They wander slowly toward the little lake, and sit down by the water. Angelica lays her head down on her upraised knees. Tucks her curtain of hair behind one ear and smiles at her Wolf Boy.

"I'm proud of you, Michael. That was...a lot, I know."

"Yes," he replies.

"But if you're going to stay, they have to know you. Know you're ok. That you wouldn't hurt anybody, or..." she trails off. Swallows. "You want to stay here, don't you?"

"I want to stay," he affirms, in his solemn way. "With you."

* * *

 **Awww, isn't that awesome?! See, I can brag on it because it's another wonderful chapter by DinahRay! I just _love_ her writing!**

 **Okay, now that I've given my review on this chapter, please allow me to thank King Reeses, anonymouscsifan, and Bumblebee93 for your great reviews on the previous chapter!**

 **See you all again soon! :D**


	6. The Grand Tour at Twilight

I do not own American Horror Story: Freak Show.

But I couldn't not write after seeing _that_ picture.

Beauty and the Beast: A Freak Show Fairytale

The Grand Tour at Twilight

* * *

As fascinating as their surroundings are in the plain light of day, they are even more so at night.

The carnival is in full swing, peopled with spectators, families, singulars, and couples alike as Angelica pulls Michael through the midway.

The little glowing lights strung high above dazzle his eyes, so like the stars but so much closer.

The two of them look much like any other set of children wandering the magic of the evening carnival.

Angelica and her straight blond hair flowing wild and loose. Angelica in her green collared and waisted paisley dress with its cap sleeves and hem stretching down just below her knees.

It is loose, being a castoff and her being quite slender. But she doesn't care and neither does her companion.

Her companion, nickednamed the Wolf-faced Boy. Because that's what carnies do.

Who really doesn't have any wolfish features once cleaned up and tidied.

In his loose fitting work jeans and white cotton shirt with its thin red stripes.

Long, straggly hair brushed and tied back in a little ponytail.

With his deep, dark eyes that take in anything and everything around him.

Especially her.

So no one much pays them any mind.

Which fine by them.

Noise and chatter and action all around but Michael is okay.

For now.

Usually she would be helping run the dunk tank or taking tickets or doling out portions of popcorn.

Earning her keep.

But tonight she has begged off a free evening from Ethel, promising hard work and no complaining tomorrow.

And so they are free.

". . . of Mirrors!" she's exclaiming as she pulls him along by the hand.

And they go.

They're discombobulating, to be sure. Contorting their children's frames impossibly tall.

Or squat and fat.

Or stretched thin and distorted.

She laughs as Michael gawks. Reaches out his hand to touch his face, then the glass.

Looks at hers in said mirror.

And frowns.

He does not like her not looking like herself.

And she smiles.

"It's okay," she lightly strokes his face. "I'm still me."

And pulls him away to something less disturbing.

Possibly.

"Step right up! Step right up, ladies and gents! See the Fearless Fire-Eater and his Flames of Death!"

The guy, his name is Hank when he's not eating fire, wows the crowd with his shocking routine.

Michael's eyes are wide and round and his mouth hangs open in awe.

His hand is in hers as it almost always is these days and she can feel him wanting to leap forward and knock the dangerous firey sticks out of the performer's hands before he hurts himself.

"No, she whispers. "It's okay. Watch."

And when Hank the flame eater concludes his act unscathed, Michael looks upon him as a god.

Then his attention is diverted as he is yet again pulled away.

"Cotton candy! Only five cents! Sugary goodness for your sweetie!"

Michael's nostrils seemed to flare at the aroma of sugar-spun heaven .

Angelica laughs again and pulls him to the heavily made up lady bequeathing stick swirled pink cotton candy to salivating patrons.

"Hey, Dahl!" Angelica beams gaily then drops her voice low. "Got any cast off for us?"

The carnie cuts her heavily-lidded eyes at the pair of them.

Angelica, always the charmer, gifts the carnie with her most winning smile.

Michael, usually flat of affect save for his deeply dark expressive eyes, attempts, quietly sucessfully, his own winning, albeit timid, smile.

Much to the bemusement of their tickled vendor.

"Well, look at that handsome smile, Michael! Such a charmer! I didn't even know you had teeth!"

And sneaks them a cotton candy to share, winking warmly at the slightly embarrassed, slightly proud boy and his smile.

The girl once again softens the attention lasering at him by throwing herself between it.

"Thanks, Dahl!"

"Don't you tell Ethel!" They are admonished. "She'll have my hide!"

But they are gone again.

Shrill, exotic music emanates from a tent heavily guarded by a random roustabout and bearing the sign "Experience Dark Delights Within Elsa Mars' Snake Charming Boudoir".

Michael's ears, already wiggling with sugar rush of the cotton candy, practically perk up at the allure of the twangy recorded sitar music.

Must be a guy thing, Angelica guesses as she pulls him back from that particular distraction.

"No, not that one, it's, uh, boring."

Not exactly accurate but it's the best she can do in the spur of the moment.

He acquieses easily enough though as she pulls him away, he glimpses around the corner of the tent, boy legs sticking out from underneath the heavy canvas.

Those determined to see the show, age limit or not.

And they go on.

Rides and attractions and freaks and cons.

And people and noise and flickering lights and curious smells.

In time, they come to the one thing that overwhelms Michael's oversaturated senses more than anything else.

The Ferris wheel.

Colossal in size. Sparkling with lights.

Turning, turning, ever so slowly.

He can see people sitting in its open cages, high above his head.

See them smiling. Hear them laughing.

And rocking.

And screaming.

And it's too much his overwrought senses.

He turns rigid, immovable.

And she feels the change in him before she even turns to look.

"Michael?"

And she sees his gaze locked on the towering contraption, feels the muscles twitching in his hand.

"Hey . . ."

She strokes his face and he manages to look over to her.

" 'S ok," she surreshes.

And he glances back up at the Wheel.

She tugs gently at his hand.

"Come on. Let's go someplace quieter. I'm tired of the carnival."

She subtly leads him away from the hoopla.

Between the booths and tents.

Beyond the trailers.

To the field beyond. And the quietly gurgling river.

They walk hand in hand without speaking for a while and his movements become smoother, easier.

Finally she speaks.

"Better?"

He nods.

"It's alot, I know."

He nods again.

Though human, his time with the wolves has influenced him.

And they, the wolves, do not apologize.

And he, in his return to civilization, has not yet learned to apologize.

And so he does not.

And he doesn't need to.

Because she understands.

As much as she can anyway.

And they walk on quietly.

* * *

 **So this is a companion chapter to DinahRay's. Hope you like it!**

 **Thanks to King Reeses, anonymouscsifan, and Bumblebee93 for those positive reviews to DinahRay's previous chapter!**

 **Oh and if you celebrate, Happy Easter! If you don't, happy day! :)**


	7. In Dreams

I do not own American Horror Story: Freak Show.

But I couldn't not write after seeing _that_ picture.

Beauty and the Beast: A Freak Show Fairytale

In Dreams

* * *

The Ferris wheel got taller, somehow.

Not that Angelica Mayweather is complaining.

Because when her striped-orange gondola sways its way to the tippy-top, she can reach out her hands and touch the clouds.

Sink her fingers right in.

They feel like damp cotton.

Like the clean clothes she and Ethel hang on the line to dry in the afternoon sun.

But they smell like toasted sugar.

Like the pink cotton candy Dahl spins before every show.

Sugary goodness for your sweetheart.

Heaven on a paper cone. Five cents, please.

Angelica decides that, the next time she reaches the top, she's going to take a bite of one of those clouds.

Just so she'll know for certain what they're made of.

She leans forward, then back, in rhythm. Just enough to make the seat beneath her gently rock.

Closes her eyes, feeling the wind blowing warm and soft against her skin.

Until her perfect peace is broken by the sounds of distress.

Bitter tears.

Little gasps.

Breathy fragments of words that sound like 'no' and 'stop' and a heart-breaking 'please'.

Angelica comes wide awake in an instant.

In her bed.

In the dark.

Just a dream.

But she can still hear the crying.

"Michael?" she whispers into the moonless black. "What's wrong?"

There is no answer. Just the choking, desperate sobs.

She steps, very cautiously, out of bed. Crouches beside him on the floor.

His neat pallet of quilts is a scrambled, disorderly pile.

He's curled in the middle of it.

Fists clenched tight against his chest.

Knees drawn up to his chin.

Angelica doesn't hesitate.

She lies down behind him.

Fits herself against him.

Puts one arm across his chest, protectively, holding tight.

The fingers of her other hand thread through his long, disheveled hair. Stroking.

"Sshh," she whispers, next to his ear. "Baby, sshh, it's ok, I've got you, I've got you…."

A torrent of little nonsense words, from somewhere deep inside her.

She can't remember her mother ever saying these things, but maybe she did.

Somebody must have. They're there.

Eventually, Michael's body relaxes into hers. The crying slows to hiccupping bursts and hitching breaths, and finally trails away entirely.

She's thinking of returning to her own bed, when he shifts.

Rolls over, and gathers her close in his arms. Lays his cheek against her collarbone, and sighs.

So she stays.

Falls asleep, finally, listening to his breathing.

Wondering what it is that he dreams.

* * *

Michael stirs, half-awake, to the patter of rain, drumming softly on the trailer roof.

The room is dim. Dark gray.

He is drowsy, and warm.

Peaceful.

Safe.

His arms around Angelica.

He's too content to wonder why.

He buries his nose in her hair.

Falls back into sleep.

* * *

Hours later, Angelica wakes with a start.

Knowing she's in the wrong place, but it takes a moment to remember why.

Then she turns her head. Sees Michael.

Lying beside her.

Watching her, with big, dark, wide-awake eyes.

Then it comes back to her.

His tears.

His panicked, hammering heart.

His arms around her, holding tight.

Before she can think how to bring up the subject, he offers his shy, sweet smile.

"I woke up and you were down here with me. Did you have a bad dream?"

Angelica's mouth falls open. "Did -I-?" she asks, astonished.

He nods, all solemn concern.

He doesn't remember his nightmares at all.

* * *

 **Ooooh, me first, me first! I just love what DinahRay does here with their dreams and Angelica's care of Michael.**

 **Hope dear Legless Suzi doesn't have a fit, ha!**

 **Well, anyway, thanks to midnightrebellion86 and Bumblebee93 for your reviews. We are most grateful and happy you guys are enjoying this AU 'cause we are having a blast writing it! :)**


	8. A Pair of Spies

I do not own American Horror Story: Freak Show.

But I couldn't not write after seeing _that_ picture.

Beauty and the Beast: A Freak Show Fairytale

A Pair of Spies

* * *

Legless Suzi has no children of her own.

Never wanted any.

She likes children, certainly.

As long as they belong to other people.

So she can give them a quick snuggle and a pat, and then pass them back to their mamas.

And now, all of a sudden, she has two.

Who keep her trailer spotless: Michael dusting while Angelica sweeps, humming under her breath.

Who are quiet, saying more to each other with shrugs and half-smiles and raised eyebrows than they do with words.

Legless Suzi has no children of her own.

Never wanted any.

But when they show up already mostly grown, they're not half bad.

Strange, but not half bad.

And really, who is she to have a problem with strange?

Suzi smiles, and watches the children go diligently about their chores.

Pours herself another cup of tea.

Thinks back to her own mama.

Miss Katherine Adelaide Purvis, of Belle Fourche, South Dakota.

Kitty.

Suzi has no real memory of the woman.

Just the stories of the aunt who raised her, after the woman who gave birth to her up and left.

Kitty.

The pretty, dark-haired daughter of a hardscrabble farmer.

Who started running as soon as she could walk.

Who ran away from her too-attentive father.

From Belle Fourche.

From the god-forsaken South Dakota winters.

From a series of lovers, and a husband or two.

Ran from all that, long before she ran away from her pretty, dark-haired, unusually-formed baby daughter. Left little Suzi with a kindly neighbor lady "just for an hour or two", and never came back.

So Suzi decided she couldn't take it too personally.

Kitty was a runner.

Would've left her sooner or later, legs or no.

There was a papa in the story somewhere, too.

Had to be.

But the space marked "Father" on her birth certificate is blank.

So he remains a mystery.

Suzi doesn't take that personally, either.

Because in the end, it doesn't matter.

Suzi's life is her own.

And she runs from nothing.

* * *

Michael the Angel Faced Wolf Boy has a special knack for silence.

He is the perfect partner in crime, because Angelica never has to tell him to keep quiet.

The crickets, however, are another matter entirely.

Their shrill chirrups make it awfully hard to hear what's going on inside Ethel Darling's old-fashioned wooden caravan.

Angelica Mayweather, hunkered on the ground beneath that caravan, scowls in frustration. Michael, lying on his stomach in the dirt beside her, strains his ears even harder.

And then, mercifully, someone inside props the door open.

"I -have- to, s'too damn -hot- in here," Eve says plaintively. "Nobody's around out here, Ethel. Just keep your voice low."

There's no reply to that, and Angelica smiles: imagining Suzi and Paul, tongues held, exchanging raised eyebrows that say "not damn likely!"

Ethel Darling's rich, deep voice is made for the stage, not for secrets.

"It won't come as any surprise," the bearded woman begins. "But this ain't our best year. We've had some additional costs lately. Lost some income earners, and gained some mouths to feed."

She doesn't elaborate, but Michael flushes red.

Angelica shakes her head at him.

Takes his hand and squeezes, hard.

"These little farm-town folks just don't have much spendin' cash, and with what we've had to pay the local law for "permits" and "permissions", we're barely recoupin' our expenses," Ethel continues. "We'll be movin' on soon and hope that things're better further West. But regardless, we gotta figure out how to cut our costs and drum up some more dough."

She sighs, and strokes at her chin.

"I'm not sayin' anything to the rest just now. Only you three, so you can help me think it through. I don't want the rest worryin' any more than they already are."

"You got it, Boss," Paul says heartily. Angelica can hear the warmth, the smile in his voice. "We'll come up with somethin'."

"We always do," adds Suzi matter-of-factly.

"We've been through tighter times," Eve agrees.

"Then sleep on it, and we'll talk again," Ethel concludes. "Meetin' adjourned."

Angelica and Michael stay quiet and still, listening to the footsteps clatter overhead and down the caravan's steps. Waiting to be sure that everyone is gone before they crawl out of hiding.

Without a word they head toward what's come to be their spot, beside the muddy little lake.

Michael sinks to the ground beside the dark water.

Angelica sits opposite, legs criss-crossed. Their knees touch.

"It's not you," she says firmly, looking into his eyes.

"I eat a lot," he answers softly.

She reaches across to cup her hand around the back of his neck, and leans her head against his.

"It's not you", she says again, looking down at their grimy knees.

"The crowds're down, that's all. We lost some acts. Dell, and Desiree...Mama too. And some towns, people just don't have as much to spend. We're movin' on to someplace better. We'll think of something we can do to help more. Earn our keep. Ok?"

Michael remains silent.

(Sometimes, Angelica thinks, it might be nice to have to tell him to shut up.)

She throws both arms around his shoulders and holds on. Feels his breath on her cheek as he sighs.

"Ok?" she repeats.

Just that one word is spoken aloud.

But more seem to flow between them, somehow.

Unspoken.

But understood.

"Ok," he replies.

* * *

 **Okay, I can literally see this happening in my head. I love it! Three cheers for DinahRay's spectacular writing! :D**

 **Yes, we been away awhile and that's all my fault. I fell off the world but now I'm back. Thanks to everyone who was patient, especially the aforementioned Ms. DinahRay.**

 **Thanks to anonymouscsifan and midnightrebellion86 for your reviews. Thanks also to SBMFanatic for adding your support to this tale.**


	9. Life in the Freakshow

I do not own American Horror Story: Freak Show.

But I couldn't not write after seeing _that_ picture.

Beauty and the Beast: A Freak Show Fairytale

Life in the Freakshow

* * *

Children, teenagers, anyone interested in escapism, often dream of running away and joining the circus.

The carnival.

The life of hedonism and freedom.

And though it is true that carnival people and others of such persuasion do have a different set of rules, laws, and justice to guide them, their lives are difficult in their own way.

The evenings of pleasure-filled orgies and opium parties are prevalent, yes.

But so are the days of toil and care.

Mornings of aching bones and sore muscles.

Afternoons of long thoughts and longer hours.

So it was with Ethel Darling's Carnival of Wonders.

Morning rise with the sun.

Laterine visits. An unpleasant, yet human necessity.

No indoor plumbing, not for a free-living carnie.

Sipping coffee from chipped cups, brewed strong and bitter for those of the troupe requiring a bit more 'umph' to greet the new day.

Breakfast. Eggs and sausages and hotcakes when times were good.

Porridge and toast when monies stretched thin.

Then to the chores.

Always the chores.

Laundering. Tent sweeping. Care of the few domesticated animals and their offspring.

Post meal cleanup and pre-meal prep.

Pulling down tents and discontinued attractions.

Putting up the new and refreshing the well-worn.

Everyone pitched in. Everyone helped.

To their best talent and skill.

And sometimes not, when the work had to be done.

Morning was the best time to work.

Morning and early afternoon.

The longer the day stretches, the less willpower one has to get done what needs to be done.

Or the more possibility of a crisis or distraction that will put the entire troupe behind schedule for the next show.

And so, everybody works.

Roustabouts. Performers.

Females and males.

Young and old alike.

* * *

"Angel, we need your boy over here!"

She looked away from the banner she and Evie were touching up.

"What?" she called back, shielding her eyes from the glaringly obtrusive sun with one hand.

Frankie rolled his eyes and pointed.

Behind and near her.

Michael's self-assigned position.

"Him! Wolfy! Whatcha call 'im?"

She narrowed her eyes at the scruffy roustabout.

"Michael. His name is _Michael_."

The man nodded, gesturing impatiently.

"Yeah, yeah. Michael. We need him!"

She looked back over her shoulder.

Saw the uncertainty in his dark eyes.

The boy.

The boy who was taller, bigger, and stronger than her.

Looking for all the world worried and a little scared to leave her side.

"It'll be okay," she whispered. "We talked about this. I won't disappear while you're gone. Go on."

He clenched his jaw.

And went.

Angelica watched him for a moment, holding the rope to raise the latest tent.

He was too attached to her, she knew that.

And she knew she didn't mind.

It was comforting, knowing he was right there.

Knowing he was devoted to her.

More than anyone had ever been to her before.

But she knew it bothered the others. And that it _should_ bother her.

So she turned her back.

And focused on the sign.

"See Legless Suzi!"

"The Half-Woman Who Walks on Her Hands"

Angelica sighed.

Suzi.

That was another thing.

She kept a cozy, simple trailer. Seemed more involved and sociable in the past weeks since Angelica and Michael had been bunking with her than ever before.

Knit.

She liked to listen to old swing music in the evening on her record player and knit.

And chat.

Seemed to take particular joy in brushing Angelica's long hair. When she let her.

Run her strong, gentle fingers through it.

Braid it.

It was soothing. Relaxing.

Never had a family of her own, so she said. Not really in the cards.

And so she played out on Angelica.

Brushing her hair, twining.

And, of course, worrying.

About the weather.

About food.

The waning interest of the carnival.

And about Michael.

Because he was a boy.

Angelica's boy.

Suzi pursed up her lips tight and didn't say anything when she saw them cozied up together in rest.

They didn't seem to be _doing_ anything.

But what would happen when they were older?

The life and environment of a carnie was in no way sheltered or straitlaced.

But the girl and her wolfboy were both young.

Too young.

And too naïve, in Suzi's mind.

And she didn't know what to do with them.

Ethel advised patience, caution.

And Ethel was usually right.

So Suzi kept quiet.

Tended to what needed tending to.

And cared about them, her children who were not her children.

* * *

"Maybe you could help care for the goats. They're quiet and calm and they don't try to talk to you."

It had been a good suggestion from Evie. One of the better ones she'd heard.

The reality hadn't gone so well.

Angelica had taken them to the pen, explained the duties, and introduced Michael to Bessie.

Bessie the four fingered goat herder, not Bessie the milk cow.

She had smiled at him.

Patted his arm with her thumbless hand.

And gently ignored him as he tried to ignore her opposable-less appendage.

"They're real quiet and sweet," she said. "They like people so watch your shirts if they get hungry."

Then she took him into the pen.

Three goats were there. Chewing, chewing, chewing.

Until he stepped inside.

Then they stopped.

Went rigid as the scent of him wafted into their snouted nostrils.

And stared in accelerating fear at the thin, blond haired boy.

And his depthless eyes.

Then they started bleating.

Not the careless _Heyya Bob, how's the munchin' over there_ bleating.

But an insistent, frantic _oh my god, Bob, where's the wolf, I can't see the wolf, do you see the wolf, Bob_ hysterics.

Then they started leaping all over the pen, knocking over posts and banging off each other.

"Get out, get out!" Bessie shouted, yanking them back with too much dexterity for a woman with one no thumbed hand.

They scrambled out, slammed the gate closed and dashed around the corner, out of sight of the maddened grass-munchers.

Gasping deep breaths of adrenaline, Bessie stared at them.

"What the _hell_ was that?" Angelica panted.

Bessie stared at them.

Michael.

And just didn't answer.

* * *

Michael was helping pound the nails into the ground to stabilize a new tent.

Or trying to.

He kept missing and hitting his thumb.

"Arhhh!"

Everytime he missed, he'd let out a little snarl or growl of anger or rage.

And his aim was terrible.

"Arhhh!"

Angelica stayed where she was inventorying crates of supplies.

Jack had commissioned Michael's help that day, jumping in with the rest of the troupe to try and work with the boy find his niche where he could help.

"Arhhh!"

Hammering obviously wasn't it.

Michael's patience snapped.

" _Arhhh_!"

He reared back and flung the frustrating implement as far as he could in tantrum.

"Ouch! Hey!"

Michael's nostrils flared in surprise.

And then he ran for it.

* * *

She found him sitting on the step of her old trailer, hunched over, drawing in the dirt with a stick.

"Hey."

He didn't look up.

"It's okay, Mattie's not really hurt." She smirked. "It hit him in his fat butt."

Michael didn't look up.

"Michael, look at me."

He did, gaze wavering somewhere around her collarbone.

"You don't have to be perfect. It's okay to make mistakes."

His dark eyes remained concentrated ashamedly on her neckline.

"Look," she said offering her hand. "Just come with me and apologize to Mattie, okay?"

He did look up at her then and she saw the fear in him at the prospect of the social interaction.

"Come on," she cajoled. "It's the right thing to do. Just shake his hand, say 'I'm sorry' and it'll be okay."

Obediently, Michael rose.

And went with her.

* * *

They approached the rotund man slowly.

The man rubbing his generous posterior and grumbling.

". . . nowhere like a bat outta . . ."

He looked up at their approach.

"Well, if it ain't the world's worst carpenter," he groused darkly.

And Michael flinched.

Glanced at Angelica surreptitiously.

Who nodded a subtle encouragement.

Michael seemed to force himself to let go of her hand.

And took a step toward the walking wounded.

"I'm sorry I hit you with the hammer."

It was the longest sentence he had said to anyone in the camp besides Angelica.

The rubbernecking carnies took a surprised, collective earful at his clear and simple speech.

Some of them had never even heard him speak at all before then.

Doubted if he even could.

Mattie himself had muttered to others if he howled instead of talked.

And found now himself tossed in with the slightly surprised.

Caught between continued anger and new interest at the boy.

Who slowly raised his hand in offered shake the way he had seen other men in the camp do from time to time.

Mattie looked at it.

"Aw, come on, Matt," someone, possibly Paul, called out. "Hard for him to miss a target that big, 'specially when it's jutting up in the air while you're lookin' for your lost ham sandwich!"

A scattering of laughter followed this statement and the big man's face reddened, causing Michael to all but flee a second time.

Then the moment broke and the sore man snorted, his face breaking into a good-natured grin.

"Oh what the hell, kid," he shrugged. "Just aim it at a tree next time insteada me, wouldja?"

And engulfed Michael's hand in his own.

Eliciting an approving smattering of applause from their audience.

Michael looked around at the gathered, his face red.

Then to Angelica, smiling and clapping.

And then he smiled.

Just a little.

* * *

 **Hey, hey, what's up, wonderful readers? This chapter's mine so hopefully you enjoyed being in the mind of a goat. Oh yeah, and the other stuff too. ;)**

 **Thanks to midnightrebellion86 and anonymouscsifan for your chapters, you guys are very gracious.**


	10. Run-in with the Queen

I do not own American Horror Story: Freak Show.

But I couldn't not write after seeing _that_ picture.

Beauty and the Beast: A Freak Show Fairytale

Run-In With the Queen

* * *

"So, Angel, gonna follow in your mother's footsteps and open a Mystic Miss tent?"

Angelica absently brushed her silky tresses out of her face and rolled her eyes at Elsa Mars and her heaving bosom.

"Ugh, no. Pretending to read the future when all you have to do is look on their faces and read everything they want to hear. It's stupid."

Elsa shrugged.

"Easy money, though. Rubes will believe anything a fortuneteller sees in the crystal ball and smoke."

Angel shook her head.

"No."

Elsa set down her broom and folded her arms.

"Well then, my dear, what _are_ you going to do? You can't expect us to support you forever while you run around with your puppy dog sniffing your ass all day."

Angel glared at her, instantly furious.

"He does _NOT_ do that!"

Elsa's emergent smile was slow and cruel.

"Oh _please_ , my dear, it's nothing to be _ashamed_ of. You should be quite proud," Elsa continued loftily. "It is every woman's dream to have a pet she can train on command."

Angelica's face was hot as her fury burned.

"Maybe _you_ do but I _don't_! And he is _not_ my pet! He's my friend! And he's got his own brain to think with!"

She was so sick and tired of that kind of thinking about Michael. Even after six months with Ethel Darling's Carnival of Wonders, a few of the more snide of their troupe still jabbed at them with their words.

Their words and their eyes.

Sly, sneaky, sulky eyes.

Like Elsa's.

As sly as her snakes'.

"Sure, sure. He can say or do whatever he wants so long as he checks with his . . ."

Here Elsa used a derogatory word common amongst carnies and other people of free speech to describe specific female anatomy. Still, it was so offensive to Angelica that it made her want to vomit.

". . . first."

Then gasped as Angelica Mayweather stepped forward. Hauled off.

And slapped the hateful smile right off the woman's leering face.

And Elsa's own anger exploded.

"How _dare_ you raise a hand to me, you little _bitch_! I am your _superior_! I was astounding crowds since before you were a stain on your father's underwear!"

And snatching up her abandoned broom, she proceeded to beat the girl with it with a vengeance.

"You little _brat_! You are only mad because I speak the _truth_ and everyone who can see you _knows_ it!"

The rough bristles scratched at her face, tangled in her hair, yanking her head painfully.

"I will _beat_ you from this carnival and you and your filthy _dog_ can live in the woods and you can bear his four-legged, shaggy _whelps_!"

Angelica cried out, trying to stumble away.

Only managing to fall over chairs set up for the evening's big top performance.

Which served to flare Elsa's already out of control rage.

"Get off those! I'll have to pick them back up again! I just finished cleaning this tent!"

And then the broom stopped its barrage and Angelica heard a female scream that was not her own.

"Ahhh! Give that back, you mutt!"

She looked up through the tangled curtain of her hair.

And saw him.

Michael.

Holding up the broom in one hand.

Menacingly toward the cowering figure of Elsa Mars.

Lips pulled back in a silent growl, teeth bared, eyes murderous.

Barely more than a boy. But ready to take on anybody and anything.

For her.

Angelica's trembling hand reached out for him then wretched back as Ethel Darling stormed into the tent.

"What the _hell's_ going on here?!" she demanded. "All this shouting and screaming!"

Then she laid eyes on the broomwielder himself.

"Michael! Put that _down_!"

His nostrils flared in response to her voice and his fingers tightened further around the broom handle until his knuckles stood out white.

"I said _now_ , son."

The three of them at a standoff, Angelica recuperating behind her protector.

She finally laid a hand on his back.

The muscles there were taut, ready to lunge.

But at her touch, he turned.

"It's okay," she whispered. "Put it down, it's okay."

He released the broom and it thwacked to the big top floor as he reached out.

And wrapped his arms protectively around her.

Hands in her hair, breathing still harsh and rough with anger.

She felt herself calming in his embrace.

"Now somebody tell me what's going _on_ ," Ethel commanded.

Elsa folded her arms across her bosom.

"They attacked me. That bitch and her _muttdog_ ," she spat, German accent thick with disdain.

Angelica felt Michael tense again but she clutched him tighter so he could not pull away.

They never made any sort of trouble for anyone in the camp.

Aside from their absolute and complete refusal to be separated.

Ethel was understandably suspicious.

" _They_ attacked _you_. For no good reason," she summarized drily. "The _girl_ and the _boy._ "

Elsa nodded curtly, now committed to her poor fabrication.

"And you did _nothing_ to them first."

Another curt nod of affirmation.

Ethel turned to the pair.

Michael, smoothing Angelica's hair with his rough hands.

Angelica glaring at the sneaky snake charmer.

"Angelica?"

Angelica redirected her attention to Ethel while Michael's worried expression zeroed in on her scratched face.

"She called Michael a ' _dog_ '," she said simply, trying to control her emotions. "And said other bad things. I slapped her."

Ethel raised her eyebrows calmly and looked back to Elsa for remonstration.

The red splay-handed mark on Elsa's face confirmed the strike but not the reason.

"Well?"

Ethel Darling waited. Elsa Mars clenched her jaw and jutted out her chin defiantly.

"I may have said something along that vein," she relented casually, now directing her attention to the blood red fingernails of one raised hand.

Ethel took a long, slow, deep breath.

And let it out just as slow.

"You two leave," she directed to Angelica and Michael.

Her voice brooked no argument.

They went, fingers intertwined as was their norm.

Ethel watched them go, her face blank, broad marble.

When they were alone, she looked back at Elsa.

Who commenced to attempt to stare her down.

"Well, what are you going to do about them?" Elsa demanded.

Ethel folded her arms across her chest, outwardly calm and collected.

"Nothing."

Elsa's face was a picture of outrage.

She opened her mouth to speak but Ethel cut her off.

"And neither are you. Just leave them alone, Elsa. Or I'll see to it myself that you get your walking papers."

And then Ethel Darling left the big top, leaving Elsa Mars alone with her rage and no one to throw it at.

Except the filtering sun beams. And dust motes.

And they didn't really seem to care at all.

The nerve.

* * *

 **So maybe Elsa's still Elsa, even here, huh? As if she could be anyone else.**

 **Anyway, thanks to midnightrebellion86 and anonymouscsifan for continuing those encouraging reviews. :)**


	11. Beast vs Beauty

I do not own American Horror Story: Freak Show.

But I couldn't not write after seeing that picture.

Beauty and the Beast: A Freak Show Fairytale

Beast vs Beauty

* * *

Hand in hand they retreat to the safety of their trailer, quiet and dim.

Angelica drops into a chair, knees gone weak, as the rush of anger and adrenaline that fueled her drains away.

Michael brushes the hair away from her face. Surveys the bloody scratches there, and wordlessly turns away to retrieve the cigar box of first aid supplies that Suzi keeps in the cupboard under the sink.

"I'm sorry, Michael," Angelica says, eyes tearing as he paints the scratches with disinfectant salve. "For what Elsa said. You're not like that. You're not an animal."

He stills his hand, fingertips grazing her chin.

"Maybe I am," he says sadly. "I wanted to hurt her."

"But you didn't."

"You stopped me," he reminds her.

"You wouldn't have," Angelica stubbornly insists. "You're _not_ an animal. I don't understand why people want to see you that way."

"But they do," Michael says, with an unhappy shrug.

And Angelica Mayweather has an idea.

* * *

"Again," she directs, from the center of the stage. "Really try to grab me this time."

Michael crosses his arms on his chest.

"Angelica-"

"Again," she insists.

"I can't," Michael protests, shaking his head. "I might hurt you."

"You won't."

"But I-"

Angelica sighs. Crosses the stage to her reluctant Wolf Boy and takes his hands in her own.

"You're not going to hurt me. I know you won't. It's just a show, right? Just pretend. You know why we have to."

Michael nods. Unhappy, but resigned.

"We have to earn our keep."

"That's right!" she says, and smiles at him reassuringly. "Now, let's try it again."

* * *

Angelica frowns across the table at Ethel Darling.

"Are you saying you don't trust me?"

The bearded woman sighs. "It's not _you_ that I don't trust."

"But he's gotta earn his keep if he's gonna stay. And so do I. Just like everyone else. That's what you said."

"I know what I said. But Angelica-"

"He's ready. _We're_ ready. Just give us a chance."

Ethel sighs deeply. Strokes at her beard.

"You're nothing if not stubborn, girl. Let me give it some thought."

* * *

Ethel Darling, illuminated by a single spotlight, stands at the front of the stage, well away from the canvas-draped cage at its rear.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we must ask that you stay in your seats while our next attraction is on the stage. And please, keep a firm hand on your children."

The crowd murmurs, cranes forward to see what's behind her in the gloom.

"This next...exhibit... comes to us from the deepest, darkest wilds of the unmapped forests. Its parentage, its age-unknown. Its strength is incredible, its bloodlust unquenchable. It is more animal than man. The Darling Carnival of Wonders presents…..The Wolf Boy."

The spotlight goes out.

The stagehands lower the striped canvas covering the cage.

For a moment, all is silent. The audience holds its collective breath.

Then wooden chairs creak in protest as people lean forward, straining to see in the darkness.

The spotlight clicks on again, illuminating the iron-barred cage.

A figure stands inside.

Dressed in rags. Body hunched in on itself. Head lowered, face invisible behind a unkempt mane of fur, or is it hair?

The crowd begins to shift, to murmur—

(what is it, it's not moving, is it even real?)

When the murmur begins to rise to a grumble, the figure straightens.

Unfolds itself.

Seems to double in size.

Throws back its shaggy head, and _howls_.

The audience startles.

Gasps.

A woman screams, high-pitched and piercing, and the sound seems to electrify the Wolf Boy.

He rushes forward and throws himself at the front of the cage. Thrusts both arms between the bars, hands clawed, straining and snarling.

The people in the first few rows shrink back against their seats. A different voice screams, even louder, and a child begins to cry.

Ethel steps back to the microphone, hands raised. "Ladies and gentlemen, _please_! Stay in your seats! If he becomes agitated enough to break out of the cage—"

The Wolf Boy cries out, another eerie, full-throated howl. He shakes the bars, which bow and rattle under his large hands.

And then…..

"NO!" rings a firm, feminine voice.

And then someone new steps onto the stage.

A slip of a girl, even in her high-heeled boots. Dressed in a gold corset and layers of flouncy red skirts over fishnet stockings. A miniature top hat jauntily cocked on her blonde head.

"No," she repeats, and the Wolf Boy runs to the end of the cage nearest her, grasping and snarling.

Angelica raises her hands above her head. Brandishes a large key.

Ethel gasps, puts a hand to her generous bosom in fright.

"Angelica, no! You can't go inside that cage. He'll tear you apart!"

The stagehands produce wooden poles, poke them through the bars and drive the Wolf Boy back toward the far end of the cage, away from its door.

The girl blows a kiss in Ethel's direction. Then another one toward the audience.

Pirouettes, lacy skirts spinning, and fits the key into the lock.

Ethel clasps both hands at her breast.

"Remain still, ladies and gentlemen! Stay in your seats! And whisper a prayer for the safety of our valiant Angelica Mayweather!"

The Wolf Boy watches as she steps inside the iron enclosure and shuts the door behind her.

For a breathless instant, they stand facing each other across the length of the cage.

Beauty vs. Beast.

And then he charges.

She feints left, darts right, narrowly evading his clawed fingers.

He skids, overbalances, crashes to the floor.

She backs away, but in an instant he has scrabbled to his feet again. He rounds back toward her. Stands, close. Looking down at her menacingly.

Growling low in his throat.

The audience gasps.

Angelica, all authority, extends her hand, palm up, in a 'stop' motion.

Her fingertips a scant inch from his snarling face.

For a long, quiet moment, they remain just that way.

And then, he sniffs at the air. Sways a little on his feet. Stares at her face, as if hypnotized.

The crowd is holding its breath.

She closes the tiny gap between them. Runs her hand over his tangled mane, and then slowly, tenderly, down the side of his face.

Lays two fingertips over his mouth.

The tip of his tongue darts out and licks at her.

And he drops to his knees in front of her, head bowed in submission.

Angelica pivots to face the audience. Places one booted foot on the Wolf Boy's thigh.

She gracefully raises one arm over her head. Her other hand rests lightly on his bent head, and she bows.

"Angelica Mayweather!" Ethel proclaims triumphantly. "The courageous beauty who tamed the savage beast!"

The crowd rises to its feet, applauding wildly.

The spotlight goes out, and the curtain closes.

Behind it, Angelica drops to her knees. Cups the Wolf Boy's face in both her hands.

"Are you ok?" she asks, over the continuing thunder of clapping hands and stomping feet.

Michael smiles.

She grins back in relief. Throws her arms around his neck.

"You were perfect," she whispers into his ear.

* * *

 **Hey, you guys! Positively in _love_ with DinahRay's chapter here, omg. Can't even tell you!**

 **But you can tell her, yeah? So go for it!**

 **Thanks to our loyal reviewers midnightrebellion86 and anonymouscsifan for staying verbose!**


	12. A Better Wolf

I do not own American Horror Story: Freak Show.

And let me tell you, my partner writer, DinahRay, is knocking it out of the _park_!

Beauty and the Beast: A FreakShow Fairytale

A Better Wolf

* * *

In Ethel Darling's caravan the next morning, Angelica Mayweather rolls her eyes.

"You've got a lot to say about an act you didn't think should be in the show in the first place."

The bearded woman raps her knuckles lightly on the top of the girl's tousled head.

Michael straightens up, leans forward. On alert.

Angelica smiles, and his shoulders relax. But his eyes stay on Ethel.

Just in case.

"Smart mouth." The bearded woman cups an affectionate hand around Angelica's pointed chin. "You did great."

She cuts her eyes toward the silent boy seated beside Angelica at the small dining table.

"Both of you did. Not denyin' it, not one bit. You took what you had and you made it somethin' the rubes would pay to see. I'm proud of you both for that. But now it's time for embellishin'. Fancyin' things up a bit. I know what I'm doin'. Been puttin' on a show way longer than you've been alive, ya know."

She gestures toward the bowls of tapioca in front of them. "Eat up, the both of you. We got work to do before this evenin'."

* * *

That night, Michael stands onstage, inside the covered cage, listening again to Ethel's dramatic spiel.

Feeling wrong.

Feeling afraid.

Before the first time, he listened to Angelica.

Understood what she wanted him to do.

Understood why.

So he could "earn his keep".

So he could stay.

And he decided easily that staying with Angelica was well worth a brief time with the eyes of the crowd on him.

Well worth showing them what they wanted to see.

A wild animal.

And when she stepped into the cage, it wasn't hard to run to her.

Reach for her.

Let her bring him to his knees.

If he hadn't been so nervous about the people watching, it might have even been a little fun.

Like their practices were.

Chasing and growling and trying not to laugh.

He was himself, beside Angelica.

And pretending to be an animal didn't matter, because she knew what he truly was.

He was himself.

He was real.

But now Ethel has "embellished" him.

Filed his nails into points. Into claws.

Glued hair, trimmed from the troupe's brown nanny goat, to his face and his chest. To the backs of his hands and the tops of his bare feet. He feels ridiculous.

And it _itches_.

And then the striped canvas drops away.

The spotlight is blinding.

Angelica steps inside the cage. He throws back his head, and howls.

And charges.

Like all the times they practiced, like onstage the night before, she feints left but spins right. And he grabs.

But this time, instead of just missing her, his newly-sharpened nails slice her open from wrist to elbow.

Her gasp is as loud as a scream in his ears. He reaches for her, shocked and terrified at what he's done.

She pushes him away, hard. Presses her hand over the bleeding wound and goes on with the act.

At the end, she presses the injured arm against her side so she can raise her other hand in triumph.

Michael lies still on the floor.

As soon as the curtain closes, Paul is inside the cage, helping her out, as Eve waits to attend to the wound. They pull her away before she can whisper that she knows he didn't mean to.

* * *

They won't let her go until she's cleaned up and bandaged.

It takes her a good long while after that to find him.

He's lying in the tall grass, well away from the tents. Curled in on himself.

"Michael," she whispers in obvious relief, dropping to her knees beside him.

She strokes at his hair, and he whimpers. Sits up and clutches at her uninjured arm.

"I'm sorry," he chokes.

"It was an accident. I know you didn't mean to. I'm fine, it's just a scratch."

He touches the gauze, light and tentative. "I'm sorry."

It's then that she notices there is blood on his hands. Caked beneath what remains of his nails, cut brutally short.

"What did you do to yourself?" she asks.

"I cut them off," he answers. "I hurt you."

"Michael-"

"I can't hurt you."

He clutches at her hands, holds tight. "I can't. I _won't_ ."

"Okay," she answers softly, squeezing his fingers. "And Michael … _I'm_ sorry. I hurt _you_. I never should have let anybody change you."

She sighs, and pushes her hair back, tucks it behind her ear. "I should never have made you do this whole thing. I didn't really ask you if you wanted to be onstage, did I? We can go back to just helping out like we were before, and not do this anymore."

Michael smiles.

"You didn't make me. And I'm a better wolf that I am a carpenter," he says. "And safer. Wolves don't throw hammers. I want to do our act. With you. But no more Ethel stuff."

Angelica dimples. Pumps their entwined hands.

"Shake on it. No more claws. No more hair. Just our way."

"Our way," he agrees. "Just us."

* * *

 **Hello, all! Can you believe the nail thing?! *shudders* Dang, DinahRay, you are _good!_**

 **And thanks to midnightrebellion86, Bumblebee93, and anonymouscsifan for your reviews. Seriously, isn't she great?!**

 **Thanks as well to Gemini-tigress and AllAwesomeness (okay, love the penname!) for adding your support to this story.**

 **Okay, see you next time! :D**


	13. Part of the Show

I do not own American Horror Story: Freak Show.

And I know it's been a while.

Beauty and the Beast: A Freak Show Fairytale

Part of the Show

* * *

As the days unspool, they learn their way.

The Beast and the Beauty, refined.

They teach themselves how to move onstage.

With, and against, and _for_ each other.

How to work the crowds up into breathless suspense, and fearful thrill.

They chase and charge and spin.

Pose and feint and hesitate.

Like a dance, practiced alone together in the cool of the early mornings. In the stifling heat of the long afternoons.

They also attend to appearances.

To Michael's nails. Cut (non-negotiably) short, but now painted animal-black. To his ever more raggedy trousers, and a shirt that is now more rip than dirty fabric.

They discover that, when artfully applied, a handful of damp dirt is as good as greasepaint for a Wolf Boy. And that more of that same dirt, mixed with a little slick of pomade, will turn Michael's shaggy hair into a feral, unkempt mane. And-best of all-that cinnamon red-hots candy, when eaten right before the show, lend the Wolf Boy's lips and tongue and teeth an shockingly vivid tint of blood-red.

He looks a perfectly fearful Beast.

As for his partner in crime, the daring Beauty, Angelica quickly learns to paint her eyes and lips and put a little color on her cheeks. But she quickly tires of the need to be safety-pinned into her borrowed costume before every show. (If pressed, she _might_ admit that she takes some satisfaction in the fact that she borrowed it off the back of her nemesis, Elsa Mars. Who loaned it only grudgingly, and with a pointedly baleful glare, under orders from Ethel Darling.) The dress is beautifully gaudy. Undeniably eye-catching.

But it's made for a grown woman, one with fuller curves than the girl has (yet) developed. Angelica wants the kind of glamour that fits her, that is her very own.

Luckily, she knows who to see.

* * *

"Almost done, doll. One more pin."

Amazon Eve lives up to her name: she's tall, even when kneeling on the floor of her trailer.

Tape measure around her neck.

Silver-spined pin cushion on her wrist.

Eye to eye with the barefoot girl standing on top of a wooden kitchen chair.

Angelica Mayweather bounces, just a little, on the balls of her dusty bare feet.

Dressed in eye-catching flounces of golden lace, edged in dark-blue satin piping.

 _Trying_ to be still.

But it's hard not to dance when you're this-close to beautiful.

Eve rises gracefully, twirls one long forefinger in the air.

"Spin, Angel. Let me make sure it's even."

Angelica arches her arms above her head, like the tiny ballerina in her mother's fancy jewelry box. Stands on her tiptoes and slowly turns in a circle.

Eve eyes the hem, then, satisfied, steps back and raises her eyes to take in the whole girl.

Crosses her arms on her bosom, all smiles.

"You're pretty as a picture, doll. You're gonna knock those rubes for a loop."

Angelica grins.

Gives in to the urge to turn her joy into motion.

Jumps clean off the chair and pirouettes across the linoleum floor to Eve.

Throws her arms around the woman's waist.

"Thank you, Evie...I've never seen anything so beautiful, let alone had it for mine."

The giantess twinkles proudly. "Aw, thank you, Angel."

She holds the girl at arm's length, looks into her eyes.

"But you're the one makes it sparkle, with that smile on your face. Remember that. It's not the clothes that are important, it's you. But you're in the show now, honey. You need your _own_ kit, and I'm tickled to be the one to make it for you. Soon as I tack up this hem, you can take that dress you borrowed on back to Elsa, thank you and good riddance."

Angelica laughs out loud.

Imagining herself onstage in this beautiful, bespoke dress. Admired by the crowd.

Imagining the sour-grapes look on Elsa's face.

And then, because he is never far from her thoughts, wondering what kind of look will be on Michael's.

* * *

 **Ah, what a perfect comeback for this seemingly abandoned little story. Thank you, DinahRay!**

 **I do sincerely apologize for everything being left for this long. It's quite a tale, ha.**

 **Anyway, glad to be getting back on the wagon and I hope you lovely readers are still out there. *crosses fingers***

 **Thanks so long ago to midnightrebellion86, anonymouscsifan, and Bumblebee93 for your reviews.**

 **Thanks also to SilentReader13, sherlocksbluebox, and devil's angel 18 for adding your support as well.**

 **See you again soon! (And this time, I mean it!)**


	14. Wolfy Gets Grounded

I do not own American Horror Story: Freak Show.

And I'd rather laugh at people doing this stuff below than do it myself.

Beauty and the Beast: A Freak Show Fairytale

Wolfy Gets Grounded

* * *

She heard them before she saw them.

Loud, incoherent voices.

Shuffling feet. Slight scuffles, as if slapping arms and shoulders and backs.

And of course, howling.

Not the sincere, persistent howling of a wolf.

But the silly, giggly, yodel of a boy _playing_ wolf.

And the raucous chortling praise of those inebriatedly encouraging him.

When they finally staggered out from between the flapping tents, she saw them in the pale moonlight.

Michael, flanked by two older men.

But she ignored them for the moment.

And focused in on _him_.

Shaggy haired, soft spoken, gentle Michael.

The Angel-Faced Wolfboy.

Walking with a decidedly forward lurch.

Grinning big and happy and uninhibited.

Almost like a puppy, he seemed.

A big, two legged, human puppy.

Wobbly and wavering.

Angelica stared at her favorite person in all the world.

Scrutinized him. Studied him.

It was weird.

He didn't seem like himself.

"Michael?"

He didn't see her at first, so busy was he.

Trying to keep his feet under him and his head up top.

Whilst the others roared laughter and pounded him on the back, making him stumble.

"Yeah, that's the Wolfy-boy, whoooooo!"

 _"Michael?"_

Her Angel-Faced Wolfboy stopped, searching the moonlit darkness for her.

Found her.

Maybe.

And her clenched fists found their way onto her slender hips.

"Michael, what is _wrong_ with you?"

He definitely found her then.

And advanced, not completely steadily, toward her.

Dark, deep eyes glazed and foreign.

When he reached her, he opened his arms wide and squished her up in them happily.

As if it had been days, weeks, months, _years_ since their last meeting.

She giggled briefly despite herself. He so rarely acted out in front of others.

Then he let her go, hovering only inches from her.

The night was dark and full of stars overhead.

A cool breezy wind brushed her face and ruffled his hair.

It seemed to tickle his flesh and he tittered again, almost a giggle.

Boyish, silly laughter.

She peered at him, puzzled.

He seemed so . . . so . . . wildly happy.

He usually seemed content when he was with her.

Happy perhaps. If a bit needful and uncertain the majority of the time.

But this.

This was . . . loose. Unhinged.

Entirely unMichael-like.

Still, she felt out of sorts looking at him.

"Michael, are you okay?"

His grin widened and she suddenly had a mental picture of her wolfboy with his tongue hanging out of his mouth, lapping at her face.

Like a puppy.

Her scratching him behind the ear, him drumming a foot on the ground.

Then the bizarre vision faded as he dipped forward, pecking at her cheek with his soft, clumsy lips.

She flinched reflexively, not used to such intimate contact with him.

Then stared, her entire face a question mark.

It was the first time he had ever dared to kiss her.

Making his new 'friends' clap and shout their approval.

"Yeah, lay one on her, Wolfy! Whooo!"

He glanced back at them, still grinning, then at her.

And yodeled his wavering howl at the moon above.

 _What the hell?_

But even as she thought it, she knew the answer.

The goats.

This was all the stupid goats' fault.

Michael, with his tender heart and desire to be the most human version of himself, took it upon himself to spend a lot of his meager, chore-free time with the goats.

He started out by sitting only barely within eyeshot of their pen.

Quiet. Still. Peaceful.

Watching them. Sending out peaceful, non-wolfy vibes to them.

Or at least trying to.

And only advanced, little by little, as much as the hairy beasts could handle.

 _Heyya, Bob? The wolf's back again._

 _Where?_

 _Over there next to the human shelter we're not supposed to eat._

 _Oh, yeah, him. Still doesn't look like a wolf though._

 _No, guess they shaved him for a coat like they do with us._

 _Is he . . . going to eat us?_

 _I don't think so, Bob. Not close enough._

 _Okay then._

And they'd resume masticating on their delectable greensward.

 _Damn good grass, Bob._

 _Yep._

And Michael would scoot a little closer.

Just a little at a time.

Until the goats . . .

 _Ummm, sure he isn't going to eat us, Bob?_

 _Weeeelllll . . ._

. . . started getting skittery.

Then he'd stop and be still again.

Two weeks he'd been doing this, over and over again.

He was almost to the enclosure.

But . . .

 _Heyya, Bob? He's, uh, looking at us again._

 _Yep._

 _And closer._

 _Yep._

. . . not quite.

Angelica, though supportive of the effort Michael was making, didn't quite have the patience to sit that still and watch bleating goats all day.

She also felt that since it was his idea and technically he hadn't requested her presence, perhaps it would be good for him to make the short trek himself.

Practice some independence.

Away from her.

She'd even encouraged him to do it.

Talk to others, that was.

Because it seemed like a good idea at the time.

"Why don't you talk much?"

He'd drawn in the dirt with a stick before answering.

"Don't need to. You understand without words."

She'd smiled fondly.

Reached out and tucked one of many strands of flyaway hair behind his ear. More from a desire to simply touch him than tidy him up.

"But what about the others?"

And received a shrug.

"Don't care about the others. Just you."

She'd smiled further. Not because she wanted him all to herself. Or thought that his taciturn nature for her was healthy and endearing.

But simply because of the honesty and simplicity with which he spoke.

Apparently wolves did not lie to each other or blow smoke up each other's butts, to paint a figurative image.

Apparently they were just honest.

"Well," she'd replied, pushing herself back to the present. "I just want the others to see how smart and wonderful you are like I do. But you have to use words with them. They're not like us."

He didn't say anything, just kept his stick idling drawing in the dirt.

Not idly, no, not idly.

A face. He'd drawn a face in the dirt.

A long oval face. Surrounded by long straight hair.

Her face.

She'd smiled again.

Tucked back another strand of his hair.

Lightly caressed his cheekbone.

And spoke again.

"So will you try, Michael? Just a little? Please?"

He'd nuzzled slightly into her fingers upon his cheek.

And nodded.

"Yes."

And that had been that.

Or at least she'd thought.

But maybe she'd been wrong.

Because between the big top and the goat pen, were several tents and trailers and the like.

Including the opium tent.

Living all her memory in the carnie life, she didn't pay much attention to things like the midnight townies sneaking to and from tents.

Or the smelly, icky trenches they had to use for their toilets.

The unwashed scent of bodies in high summer, unable to stay as clean and fresh as the marks that visited their shows, shelling out money like peanuts.

Those things were just part of carnie life.

Like the opium tent.

She'd seen people after their opium excursions.

Vacant eyed, loopy limps.

Like they weren't all there. Like they weren't in full control of their actions.

Angelica didn't like that.

She never wanted to be lost from herself. Out of control.

She'd seen her mother babbling and drooling with Dell and Delilah.

And she didn't want to be like that.

So she just skirted it, ignored it, left it to others.

And had her own fun.

With her full faculties in place.

She hadn't really thought about Michael taking any interest in it.

He pretty much followed her lead on things.

Which she let him do.

Because she felt she had a good handle on it all, having known little else.

So it hadn't been much of a concern.

Maybe she should have.

Because here they were.

She grabbed his hand then and shook him vigorously.

"Michael! What is wrong with you?"

His loosey-goosey body swayed a little with her shaking.

His grin, however, stayed.

And when she stopped her shaking, he spoke.

Dopily. Sweetly. Happy.

"Pretty."

And he pecked her cheek again.

His buddies, roustabouts that definitely would get a verbal lashing from Ethel if Angelica had anything to do with it, wailed good-natured laughter, wiping tears from their eyes, and leaning on each other's shoulders for support.

Angelica pressed her lips together in sudden disgust and fury.

Grabbed Michael's hand.

And dragged the grinning dope away.

* * *

 **Okay, hopefully this was slightly humorous as well as Michael sticking his foot all in it just like teenagers do sometimes.**

 **Also, my ten month old baby boy is blowing strawberries at me as I write this. No seriously, the kid is grinning and covered in drool. Not sure what kind of literary review _that_ is but oh well ;)**

 **Anyway, thanks from DinahRay to midnightrebellion86, anonymouscsifan (nope ,never abandon any story, just sometimes get stuck, all my bad, not DinahRay, she was so ready to write and post, wonderful her), and The Cry-Wank Kid for those reviews! Loyal lot you are! :D**


	15. Personal Backlash

I do not own American Horror Story: Freak Show.

Somebody's about to have a hissy fit! ;)

Beauty and the Beast: A Freak Show Fairytale

Personal Backlash

* * *

". . . can't _do_ that, Ethel!"

A passionately rage-filled Angelica stood steaming and seething before the matron of Ethel Darling's Carnival of Wonders.

As irate as the girl was, her mentor remained that much calmer and collected.

The older let the younger sputter and fume herself out before speaking her own piece.

"Angel, honey, I know you care about that boy, maybe a little too much . . ."

Drew up a calm, soothing hand as the girl started to turn red again.

". . . but the fact of the matter is the world is this way. Those rousties didn't mean any harm. They were just trying to befriend the kid . . ."

Angelica's mouth shot open in disgust.

". . . the only way they knew how."

Then closed it, turning her face away in irritation.

"Ain't their faults they got peanuts for brains."

Before turning back again in surprise.

To look at the older woman's lined face, a slight smile lightening the usual dourness.

"Now, I _could_ stomp over and give them what for," she mocked a scowl before continuing. "But that'd only make Michael seem even more like your lapdog."

Angelica's temper flared up again.

"As _they'd_ see it. Just as you've been fearing and neither of us been wanting."

Angelica's lovely face crinkled up in frustration and Ethel answered the question before the girl spat it out.

"So insteada putting a target on your boy's back, teach him to use his _brain_ and not get in over his head."

Ethel stroked a kind finger through the girl's silky dark blond hair as she finished her speech.

"And don't go too rough on him while he's learning, okay?"

* * *

She didn't expect it so she wasn't sure what to do with it when she got it.

Her apology.

From men at least twice her age.

So she didn't really know how to respond.

"We sure are sorry 'bout upsettin' you, Miss Angelica. And that's the truth."

"Yeah, we's just trying to be friendly with the boy. Didn't thinka upsettin' ya, miss."

They looked so earnest, all grizzly whiskered and pre-aged sun faces. Twisting their hats and rubbing the backs of their dirtied necks.

Suitably contrite and regretful.

And all she could feel was anger.

For the moment as it was.

"Did Ethel put you up to this?!"

The self assigned leader of the apology brigade shuffled in the dirt ashamedly.

"No, miss. We come on our own. So's you'd know we was regretful 'bout what we done to him."

Angelica's rage deepened.

"You're talking to me like I'm his _mother_!"

The rousties seemed at a loss, awash in her liquid rage. They shifted, they shuffled, they stared at the ground.

Angelica knew she was being unreasonable, knew she should take their humility for what it was.

And let it go.

But she felt in over her head.

Frustrated.

Resentful.

All she had wanted she was to be Michael's friend, see him be okay out of the cage.

"Uh, well, miss, we, uh . . ."

She bit down on all the words she wanted to say to them, to all of them, even the ones that hadn't made their opinions known yet.

Regained her fragile composure somehow.

"Thank you."

And walked away as fast as she could, tears of shame welling up in her eyes.

* * *

It was the first time anything had come between them, cracked their bond.

It was awful.

And she hated it.

And she couldn't stop it.

At first it was him.

He wouldn't look at her.

He wouldn't speak to her.

He sat hunched, like a whipped puppy, like a whipped _dog_.

Maybe he was mad at her.

For embarrassing him in front of the rousties, acting like an overprotective mother hen.

For not letting him have fun.

That's what her mother had so vehemently expressed whenever Angelica called her out on her unmotherlike behavior.

The opium. And the drink. And the men.

"Don't be such a _prude_ , 'Jelli," she'd scorned slovishly. "No man's ever gonna want you if you don't learn to have a little _fun_ in life, sugar."

And she'd cackle and snark as Angelica turned away from the grotesque visage of her mother's partially exposed breast being roughly groped by whatever current 'boyfriend' happened to be temporarily salivating over her at the time.

So when Michael refused to look at her, refused to talk, refused to acknowledge her existence, she found herself hurting and unable to speak.

Which led to her own behavior.

She avoided him, sent him off on errands, jobs away from her to other people in the troupe.

She turned her back on him in her own bunk, silently sending the signal for him to return to his pallet where Suzi had so desperately wanted him to sleep anyway.

Where he should sleep.

Not with her.

Which meant neither of them slept well anyway.

Further souring their moods during the daytime.

And causing Suzi, Ethel, and the other individuals the group that bothered themselves enough to care to worry and fret over their budding lovebirds.

"They're just so _sweet_ together," Eve bemoaned to Paul over coffee one misty morning.

Paul nodded casually, sipping from his own stout brew.

"Yeah, they're a set, alright. But no worries, love. It's just a tiff. They'll get back to it soon enough."

Eve's full lower lip pouted out from her handsome face.

"How can you be so _sure_?"

Paul smiled fondly at his soft-hearted, Amazonian friend.

"Something special 'bout those two. Mark my words, love. It'll work out."

And did .

Right before the fairy tale lovers like Eve and the ones like Paul who simply believed in patience and time all gave up.

Since Michael seemed to be struck dumb with emotional mutism, Angelica swallowed her pride and anger.

And went to him.

Found him on the steps of the trailer.

Morosely staring at the dirt.

Not even a portrait-drawing stick in his hand.

Just staring.

"Hi."

He didn't look up.

"Sunny day."

Nothing.

Angelica took a deep breath, tucked her long sleek hair behind one ear.

And sat down next to him.

"Michael."

She continued to be gifted the sight of the top of his shaggy head.

"Michael, look at me."

He managed to, though his gaze reached no higher than her collarbone.

"Michael, are you upset?"

No response.

"Angry?"

He nodded a little, eyes focused on her neck.

"With me?"

A slight shake of the head.

Untangling the enigmatic riddles of a sphinx would have been easier. Quicker too.

"With the rousties?"

Another slight shake.

"With somebody else?"

Barely discernable nod.

Angelica Mayweather had never heard the prhase 'pulling hen's teeth'.

But the if so, she would have understood the idiom completely.

She took a deep breath.

"Michael. Who are you mad at?"

He ducked his head.

She ventured.

"Are you mad at yourself?"

He nodded.

Ethel's advice echoed in her mind.

"Michael, everybody makes mistakes. You didn't understand what would happen, did you?"

He shook his head.

"So learn from it and move on, okay?"

He nodded but his dark cloud didn't lift.

"Michael? Is there something else?"

He sat very still, studying his hands.

And spoke his first words to her in days.

"I . . . I kissed you."

She blinked.

"What?"

His tanned face turned red.

"I kissed you. Without asking."

She stared at the side of his head.

"That's what you're so upset about?"

He pressed his lips together and nodded.

She sat, completely dumbfounded.

"And that's why you've been avoiding me?"

He nodded.

Angelica was at a loss.

The one sweet, albeit embarrassing part of the whole situation, was the one thing Michael was most ashamed of.

Taking advantage of her. With a simple kiss on the cheek.

She cleared her throat uncertainly.

"Did it . . . did it . . . feel . . . bad?"

He ducked his head further. Voice barely audible.

"No. It felt . . . good."

Angelica didn't know the exact interpretation of 'good' in this instance.

It could mean a lot of things.

Several of which she wasn't quite ready to consider.

And now it was her turn to blush.

And think.

And consider.

Finally, she responded.

"It felt good to me too."

And pecked Michael's cheek.

"There. Now we're even."

He glanced at her in surpise.

She smiled and he returned it shyly.

She wrapped her arms around his neck, laying her head comfortably on his shoulder.

And they studied the dirt at their feet together.

It was their first companionable silence in days.

And it was okay.

* * *

Later when they appeared in the mess tent together, gathered their food together, and sat together, eating with smiles and relaxed conversation, Paul reached over and patted the glowing Evie's hand.

"All better, then, love?"

Her smile was enough.

* * *

 **Drama, drama, drama, huh? But hopefully relatable.**

 **Thanks to my awesome writing partner, DinahRay, midnightrebellion86, and anonymouscsifan for your encouraging reviews! :D**


	16. Happy Birthday!

I do not own American Horror Story: Freak Show.

And now to lighten up a bit.

Beauty and the Beast: A Freak Show Fairytale

Happy Birthday!

* * *

May 13, 1956.

Angelica Mayweather gradually leaves the world of her dreams behind.

Swims back to the waking world in slow degrees.

She smiles, aware that she is happy before knowing why. But by the time she opens her eyes, she remembers.

"Happy Birthday," whispers Michael.

He is older. Taller. Stronger. Calmer.

Still her Angel-Faced Wolf Boy.

Sitting cross-legged on his pallet beside her bed, with his hands full of wildflowers.

Just like the first time.

The birthday she'd had soon after she found him in a den of wolves.

Brought him home to the Darling Carnival of Wonders.

Brought him into her family.

* * *

1952.

Michael the Angel-Faced Wolfboy sticks to Angelica Mayweather like glue.

It isn't easy to get him alone.

But Ethel Darling is as persistent as the ocean tides.

She manages.

With a little help from Legless Suzi and Amazon Eve.

She has Eve call Angelica away from the cook tent, where she and Michael are stacking up bags of flour and sugar and rice at Suzi's direction.

"Angel, there you are! Got time for a fitting?"

Necessity, born of being a 6 foot 8 inch woman, has made Eve an expert seamstress. She makes all her own clothes, consulting the latest movie magazines for inspiration, and many of the Darling troupe's costumes, from clown suits to tutus. She's currently at work on a stage outfit for Angelica- gold satin with layers of black lace flouncing- and as always the very thought of this finery makes the girl giddy with joy. She follows Eve to her trailer gladly, promising Michael she'll soon return.

As soon as Angelica is out sight, Ethel makes her move.

"Sorry, Suzi, but I need to borrow your assistant for a minute. Ya mind?"

The woman perched on the picnic table smiles her assent, stealing a look at the boy in question.

Standing stock still, with a 10 pound sack of flour clutched against his scrawny chest.

"C'mon, Michael. I wanna talk to you for a minute."

She heads toward her trailer.

Turns back to see that he's still just standing there.

Hugging that flour.

So tightly that little white puffs of it are drifting out, dusting his long, shaggy hair.

Ethel sighs.

"Put that bag down, son, 'fore you look like a ghost."

He does.

Face expressionless. Eyes stricken.

Ethel puts her hands on her hips.

Clumps back to him, and puts a gentle arm around his shoulders.

"C'mon, kid. It's not the firing squad, I promise."

* * *

They sit on opposite sides of the small, square table in Ethel's caravan.

The bearded woman is drinking coffee.

The red tin mug in front of Michael brims with goat's milk.

(He loves the stuff. Drinks up his allotment at every meal. And then Angelica's, when she inevitably smiles and slides it over.)

But the red mug sits untouched while he stares down at his hands.

Ethel narrows her eyes at him. Strokes at her beard.

"Michael, have you done something wrong? "

His eyes widen. "No!"

She nods in satisfaction. "No, you haven't. Because if you had, I'd know. So stop lookin' at me like a deer in the headlights. I want to talk to you about Angelica."

He leans forward intently at the sound of her name.

"Sunday's her birthday."

He cocks his head. Eyes on her face.

Waiting for an explanation.

"You know what that means, right?"

He just waits.

Ethel sighs.

"Your birthday is the day you're born. And every year on that same day people treat you special. Make you a cake. Give you presents. Do you understand?"

He hesitates. Then speaks, uncertain and soft.

"How...how do you know? What the same day is? How do you know the day you were born?"

Sweet Jesus.

'Sonny boy,' Ethel thinks but doesn't say, 'there's a special place in hell for whoever did you that way.'

"You know because the people who love you remember. That's your family, Michael-the people who love you. Angelica's ma is gone, but me, and Suzi, and Evie and Paul-we love her, and we remember."

He nods.

"I want to remember, too."

Ethel smiles. Reaches out and pats his hand.

"I thought ya might. Now drink your milk. We've got work to do."

* * *

Angelica Mayweather wakes up early. Uncurls herself, and stretches. Rolls over and startles at the sight of Michael, sitting crosslegged on his pallet beside her bed.

A bunch of wildflowers, still wet with dew, clutched in both hands.

Watching her with his warm, dark eyes.

"Happy Birthday," he whispers.

* * *

 **I am just so loving this chapter! Well done, DinahRay! *applauds you***

 **Thanks to DinahRay, King Reese's, and anonymouscsifan for those great reviews of the previous chapter!**

 **See you again soon!**


	17. Hope and Those Who Desire It

I do not own American Horror Story: Freak Show.

The joy of writing, however, is returning. The remaining quandary is, where is the time?

Beauty and the Beast: A Freak Show Fairytale

Hope and Those Who Desire It

* * *

They don't hold hands all the time, not anymore. They sleep on their own pallets as well, close but separate all the same.

And that's okay. Michael doesn't seem to need it so much. He seems more settled with himself and his space in the world.

The Angel-Faced (heaven itself seems to have saved him from the common torture of teenage pimples and general blotchiness) Wolfboy of the Darling Carnival of Wonders.

He is taller, still lean, and his youthful body seems intent on growing muscles and hair and burgeoning maturities in places where formerly there were only childish features.

Angelica notices this and finds herself oddly fascinated, though her wonder still is shrouded mostly in innocence and friendship.

He may be slightly ahead of her in this aspect, for he notices more, sees more, feels more.

And keeps it to himself.

Her simple allure, her natural grace.

The exceptional loveliness of her face, the depth of her brown eyes, the way his heart seems to stutter and warm and pound harder when she looks at him fondly and smiles.

The movements of her body, the way it feels against him when she hugs him.

She is not voluptuous like some of the carny women whose curves draw the attention of the Y-chromosomed and some of the more independent thinkers of the X.

On the contrary, she is rather thin and spare in womanly features still.

But to him, she is perfection, she is beauty.

He loses himself momentarily in her silky soft hair when it drifts across his face.

Loses himself in her unique scent, always prevalent to him even under the sweat and dirt and grime of daily life.

But he keeps these things to himself because, as human as he has become after years out of the cage, he is still relatively young and without experience and doesn't quite know what to do with all of it.

Except enjoy her presence when she is near him.

And enjoy the memories of it when she is not.

They notice these things but they don't speak of them. Because how does one speak of the things your body feels that your mind is not prepared to address with the person you have always loved emotionally but aren't yet ready to love physically?

So they stay close but not too close and touch but not too much and love without becoming lovers.

And everyone who cares notices and smiles secret smiles and protects their innocence as best they can.

From those who would seek to destroy for their own cruel pleasure.

Those like Elsa.

"He'll be rutting her under the ferris wheel before long," she hisses to anyone within earshot. "Ethel'd better get him some of those manskins the midnight callers use or we'll have little bastard pups running around eating up all our food before long."

"Hush, Elsa," they admonish her, Suzi or maybe Evie. "Don't be so crass. They're not like that, they're just sweet on each other."

Because as harsh and unforgiving as the world can sometimes be, they want to believe in something, anything.

So they believe in the beauty of the young, innocent love between the courageous, motherless girl who rescued and brought home a gentle, kind boy who had been locked in a cage and treated like an animal for far too long.

Their protectors watch over them as their bodies seem content enough to wait a bit longer to explode into the inevitable brain-addling fever that so effects the hormonally driven youth.

"Yes, I was her age once," Elsa then replies darkly. "And when he'd wiped himself on his shirttail, he left without a backward glance. They cut the baby from me and threw it in the rubbish heap."

The horrified looks serve only to egg her on instead of shut her up.

"What?" She shrugs, relishing the attention and dimming of their previously brightening spirits. "How was I going to break into show business with some snotty brat on my hip?"

And they refrain from shaking their heads and clucking their tongues.

Because carnies know what they themselves have done in times past.

And know they, by and large, are in no place to judge.

Their dark deeds, their dark times.

And that is why so many of them want to believe. Believe in something.

In purity. In love. In beauty.

In the pair of young ones.

And the hope they represent.

* * *

Angelica and Michael, though vaguely aware of their audience, have grown so accustom to them that they choose to ignore them.

Go about their days.

Working.

Performing.

Spending time apart.

Though still most of their time together.

And seeming satisified with their lots in life as they are.

And as the world turns, things draw closer that will change everything they presently know.

And that is part of life too.

* * *

 **I hope you enjoyed this little intermission between dramas. I enjoyed writing it.**

 **Also, I've said it before and I'll say it again. Dinahray, you are a fantastic writer! *bursts in applause***

 **Special thanks to the wonderful DinahRay for your continuing support and friendship. You have such a lovely soul it just shines out of you.**

 **Thanks to anonymouscsifan and King Reeses for your reviews and thanks to Winchester-or-Whitlock (interesting) for adding your support to this story.**


	18. The Visitor

I do not own American Horror Story: Freak Show.

Anybody curious as to the new season?

Beauty and the Beast: A Freakshow Fairy Tale

The Visitor

* * *

"Hey, Mike!"

The young man in question squints into the bright, mid-day sun.

A pair of rousties wave from a picnic table beside the cook-tent, elbows firmly planted next to heaping enameled-tin plates.

"Where ya goin'? Come get some grub!"

Michael the Angel Faced Wolf Boy smiles, and shakes his head.

"Later," he calls in response. Gestures with the plate in his hand.

Hurries away, toward the trailer he shares with Angelica and Legless Suzi.

He has to set the plate down on the metal step to open the sticky old screen door.

Inside, the curtains are drawn, fluttering limply in the scant breeze, and the light is dim and hazy.

The box fan is humming away, but the room is still hot. He sets the plate down on the table softly, hoping she's asleep.

Carnies work hard.

The traveling life doesn't offer much in the way of idle luxury, and everyone is expected to carry their weight.

But the Darling Carnival of Wonders is run by a boss who's as decent, as compassionate, as she is pragmatic and shrewd.

Hangovers excepted, Ethel is mercifully understanding when it comes to members of her troupe who are sick or in pain.

Right now-and, unfortunately, every month since she turned thirteen-Angelica Mayweather is both.

She'd always been fascinated by the mysteries of womanhood. Right up until the day she became one herself.

Now, she clutches a pillow to her belly and wishes, for the hundredth time, that she was still a little girl.

What Suzi calls her "monthly visitor" hits her like a freight train, every time. Brings along a sick stomach, and wave upon wave of hurt. Like shards of metal, low in her belly, ripping and stabbing.

She sighs and pulls her knees up to her chest.

The sight makes Michael's stomach clench in sympathy.

He rattles the plate a little, to be sure she knows he's there, before he crosses the narrow room to her bed.

"Hi," she says, with a half smile.

"I brought you-" he begins, but she cuts him off with a grimace.

"No food. I just can't."

"Ok," he answers, sitting gingerly on the side of the mattress.

Her hand steals out to his, and holds it.

"I'll be better tomorrow," she promises, blinking against another bolt of pain.

"I don't like it when you hurt," he answers, and they hold each others' gazes.

Both of them jump when the screen door thumps closed.

"Get used to it, sonny boy," Ethel Darling booms. "That's just one of the many joys of a woman's life, so if you're gonna love one-"

"Ethel!" Angelica interjects, cheeks flushing. "I'm glad you came by."

Ethel snorts a laugh. "You're about to be."

She pulls a flat pint bottle from her hip pocket and unscrews the top. "Take a sip. It'll help."

Angelica knows whiskey when she smells it. Her long-gone mother wore that scent, far too often.

She knows what it can do.

But sweet Baby _Jesus_ , it hurts so much.

She takes a deep breath and reaches for the proffered bottle.

And Ethel draws it back.

"For medicinal purposes only. And only when I give it to you. Are we clear?"

Angelica nods, gravely.

Takes the bottle.

Tips it, and swallows.

And coughs.

Ethel reaches out to ruffle her hair.

"Lie down and try to sleep, Angel."

"Thank you," Angelica murmurs.

Already feeling a little strange. A little...disconnected.

Ethel pats Michael's shoulder.

"Stay with her til she falls asleep," she says. "I'll let the boys know you'll be a little later getting back on the job."

The screen door closes, and Michael turns back to Angelica.

Her eyelids are fluttering, and her body beginning to relax from its tight, fetal curl. But still she grimaces, her hand on her belly.

Michael lays his hand on top of hers, and presses gently.

"Mmmmm," she murmurs, so he leaves his hand where it is.

He keeps up the careful pressure, watching her face.

The frown-line between her brows disappears as her muscles gradually relax.

Her breathing slows and deepens, and he thinks she must be asleep. But then she speaks, in a soft, dreamy murmur.

"Are you?" she asks, without opening her eyes. "Gonna love me?"

"Yes," he answers. "Go to sleep, now."

And so she does.

* * *

 **Hey everybody, round of applause for DinahRay's new chapter!**

 **Belated unfortunately by her writing partner (moi)'s bout of pregnancy amnesia. :(**

 **Anyway, anyone offended by this chapter has never been betrayed and attacked by their own body. Goody-o for you then. ;)**

 **Lastly, thanks to DinahRay for her support and patient and previous review and anonymouscsifan and King Reese's for your reviews as well.**


	19. Love Quadrilateral, Part 1

I do not own American Horror Story: Freak Show.

Tomorrow I'll own another kid tho. Whoo!

Beauty and the Beast: A Freak Show Fairy Tale

Love Quadrilateral, Part 1

* * *

Dandy Mott was without a doubt the primary ladies' man of the Ethel Darling Carnival of Wonders.

Tall and lean. Dark and light. Eyes of piercing blue. Smile of stunningly white teeth.

Golden tongue of talent and tantalizations.

Women whispered of him over their washing.

Down by the river where they scrubbed their clothes clean.

They whispered.

He had a certain . . . way about him.

The melt-your-frozen heart way.

The flutterings-in-the-belly way.

The-muffled-gasps-and-moans-(except for screamer Elsa Mars)-in-the-moonlit-night way.

Oh, the whispers.

Just about every woman with a pulse in the troupe save for the seeming asexual Ethel Darling batted her eyes at him at one point or another.

And could hardly find it within herself to be angry with him when their little trysts were said and done.

Until the next time he slunk back 'round, crooning and smiling and promising dark delights.

Maggie Esmeralda, the contortionist, was a one of the few.

She, like the others, practically panted whenever he was around.

Curled her hair, applied her reddest lipstick, batted her thick mascaraed eyes at him whenever their paths crossed.

And, of course, hung on the feather's breath of every syllable that dripped from his perfectly formed lips.

It usually worked.

On any and all those of the male-drawn-to-female persuasion.

The few fairy boys didn't count. Those like the lurking Stanley for instance. And his midnight alter ego Liz.

They predictably didn't fawn after her carefully practiced and perfected sashays.

Though they did come to her for beauty tips.

And for good reason.

The young lady was a looker, no doubt about it.

If you liked her kind of look.

Never dirtied. Diligent to her blood red polished nails. Meticulously groomed and rigorously underfed.

Fancying herself much more refined, attractive, and alluring than the other, more homely, unfortunate women of the carnival.

But Dandy, to her absolute bafflement, didn't seem to notice.

He was too distracted.

Before shows, fresh and clean and shaven.

In his bare chested vest and low slung harem pants.

He seemed to prefer chatting up a much younger, untouched Angelica Mayweather.

After shows, covered in a light sheen of sweat from the hot lights of the stage.

Performance eyeliner slightly smudged, ears ringing with applause.

Conversing enthusiastically with an equally exhilarated and buoyant Angelica Mayweather.

In the off hours, slightly soiled white shirt dusted with grime. Work pants patched on the knees.

Thick, black hair unencumbered by pomade and falling down in waves over his strong forehead.

He folded his muscled arms over his chest.

And cast his gaze upon the girl with the silken blond hair.

He seemed fascinated by her.

By her brightness, her unaffectedness.

By the fact she alone of the females of the troupe did not pursue him.

But though he was the self assigned Casanova of the wandering carnival, nothing in his demeanor or words showed him eager of a carnal dalliance with her.

On the contrary, he seemed to resort to a simpler, more innocent persona around her.

Quipping nonsense jokes and silly puns.

"Hey, Angelica! What's a musical instrument found in a bathroom? A tuba paste!"

She'd smile and laugh while touching up Eve's proud Amazonian banner.

And he'd grin happy and big from his perch on some big box and swing his feet like a child.

As the red lipped contortionist pouted from the sidelines, attempting to edge herself into the lighthearted fun.

Lowering herself, practically _debasing_ herself, in an attempt to compete with and no doubt win out the affections of Dandy over the hapless, hopeless Angelica.

"Hey, Dandy! Why did the chicken cross the road?"

He'd never even look at her.

"To get to the other side. Hey, Angelica, didja hear the one about the . . ."

And Maggie Esmeralda would be left out again, unnoticed and unloved and undesired.

It didn't make sense.

Angelica wore no makeup outside the big top performances.

She never even attempted to curl or fix her hair in any way other than the daily brushing and biweekly washing.

Being of even slighter build than her minimally curved competition, all her clothes were castoffs, loose and baggy.

Completely unimpressive and underwhelming.

She should have paled and faded in the light of Miss Maggie Esmerelda and her carefully coiffed and painted perfection.

But instead, Dandy seemed to prefer the casual, non-sexualized company of the scrawny, completely unladylike Angelica.

And her blatant disregard for all things feminine and fine.

Even going so far as to be friendly and easygoing with her bastard pup of a boy toy.

Who never raised his head or cut his eyes to the older, more mature, more manly Dandy.

Unless of course called upon.

"Hey, Michael, wanna go fishing later? Catch some supper? I gotta extra pole."

"Uh, yeah, I guess . . ."

"Great! Hey, Angelica, keep us company?"

"Huh? Oh, sure. Bet I can catch bigger fish than you two anyway."

"Ha! I bet you could! Care to make it interesting? Loser cleans the catch . . ."

And as time went on, jealousy and rage bubbled up inside the tossed aside Maggie like a frothy, sick thing.

* * *

 **I might should apologize to any Maggie Esmeralda/Emma Roberts fans out there.**

 **But I won't. I don't like her. And we're all entitled to our opinion.**

 **Oh and hey, there's Dandy! We'll get to see him again. And again.**

 **Thanks to DinahRay for helping me hash this out.**

 **Thanks also to anonymouscsifan and King Reese's for your reviews to DinahRay's last chapter.**

 **And thanks to camsam17 and Claed for adding your support to this tale.**


	20. Love Quadrilateral, Part 2

I do not own American Horror Story: Freak Show.

Know that new kid I do own? Head FULL of sandy brown hair! Wow! Never saw that comin'!

Beauty and the Beast: A Freak Show Fairy Tale

Love Quadrilateral, Part 2

* * *

"Michael?"

He was nowhere to be found.

Except that he _was_ somewhere.

He had to be.

 _Everybody_ was _somewhere_.

"Michael? We need to practice our act!"

She was late, having been temporarily stymied in her quest for Michael.

By Dandy. Man-boyishly charming, dark eyed, quip-quoting Dandy Mott.

Dandy Mott, who sometimes disappeared after a show and returned with blood in his unnaturally white teeth.

And bits of human flesh under his gleaming fingernails.

Not that Ethel Darling ever let on to anyone as to _why_ the troupe had to up and move on a dime from time to time.

After all, carnies had to close ranks and look out for their own.

When the need arose.

As for the current situation, it turned out it was true everybody was somewhere.

And sometimes there were two somebodys in the same somewhere.

Like now.

Maggie Esmeralda, the blonde haired, primmed and prettied contortionist.

Laughing and smiling, her perfectly mascared eyelashes all aflutter.

And Michael, unsuspecting chess pawn Michael. The Angelfaced Wolfboy.

They were sitting on abandoned stumps, drinking cokes pilfered from the roustabouts' secret stash.

Abask in the warm sunlight, being caressed by a light summer breeze.

Him, elbows on knees, slightly dusty and hunched.

Quite obviously a little self conscious at the surprise attentions being lavished upon him.

By her.

Her, properly perched, ankles demurely crossed.

Running her lithe fingers playfully through his shaggy brown hair.

Ruffling it, mussing it.

Like a child, fond of its puppy.

Or an innocent girl flirtatious with her reserved beau.

A picture perfect romantic moment.

As if the queen herself had ordered it so.

Just because she knew she could.

Michael, though seeming to enjoy himself well enough, wore a look of polite caution.

Smile a touch uneasy, dark eyes shifting here and there.

As if he were in uncharted, uncomfortable territory.

With someone, though attractive and engaging, he did not quite understand or trust.

Angelica approached them, choosing a casual and light air.

Determined to be congenial.

Even though Maggie Esmeralda had always struck her as a red-lipped, powdered and rouged predator.

Much like a younger, less German, Elsa Mars.

At any rate, someone Angelica definitely did _not_ want sinking her perfectly painted claws into Michael.

But she was not going to fly mother hen at them, squawking and flapping her wings in a tantrum.

Not unless she had to.

And so she strolled, as if without a care in the world, toward the mismatched pair.

They saw her. Separately and seconds apart.

The difference in the lounging couple's response to her intrusion was significant.

Maggie, bottle upturned, lowered it slowly.

Bright, gay mood clouding so quickly the colors of the immediate world around her might have actually faded listlessly out of existence for a moment.

Michael, on the other hand, catching sight of her, perked up.

Countenance instantly lighting. Relaxing.

As if the mere glimpse of her afforded him much needed air.

Comforting and familiar and welcome.

A part of himself returned.

She smiled at him as she spoke, forcing herself to sound glad he was interacting with others.

Even her.

"Hey, you ready to practice?"

He nodded eagerly, blindly handed the suddenly sullen Maggie the remainder of his glass-bottled, liquid sugar delight.

And immediately rose to walk away.

Leaving Maggie once more alone.

"So I was thinking, to really stir up the crowd . . ."

And neither of them noticed the slash of embarrassment and frustration reddening the cheeks of the girl left behind.

 _Always_ left behind.

By them.

Men.

For her.

Some lesser girl.

Who didn't even care or want them.

Couldn't be anything special for them.

Now murky brown eyes narrowing into slits of hate, red painted lips twisting down into a garish pout.

Her.

It was always _her_.

* * *

Applause followed the final act off stage and Angelica knew it had been a good night.

Everyone seemed to have performed well, audience gasping at Dandy's sword swallowing routine as much as the lady folk sighing at his well toned physique.

As the men with Elsa's snake charming dance. Angelica was certain the ones who did not patron her tent that night would do so in their dreams.

For an old broad, she still had some moves and allure to her advanced timeline.

Which was a good thing, given that she couldn't sing a lick.

Even though she _thought_ she could.

Smiling to herself, Angelica immediately moved to start organizing and tidying the equipment in the dim light of the shrouded backstage.

Turning to hand a big drum to Maggie.

Who viciously ripped it out of her hands, nearly tearing fabric from barrel.

"Hey, watch it!" Angelica reprimanded in a low voice so as not to disturb the remaining attendees.

Then she noticed the sullen heat coming off the skimpily dressed performer.

"Hey, what's wrong with you?"

The blonde whipped around to face her, inches away, and Angelica saw her heavily made up face screw up in rage and hate.

"Leave me alone, you . . ."

The screech of vile, nearly unintelligible, curse words spewed from her mouth like burning lava.

". . . I _hate_ you!"

The caterwauling surely reached the ears of the few remaining patrons slow in filing out of the big top.

Angelica waved a cautioning hand at the raging female.

"Shhhh! The rubes can hear you! What is your _problem_?!"

Trembling with rage, the overcome girl snarled incomprehensibly, turning her painted beauty into twisted ugliness.

Big, round eyes swelling with selfish tears.

"I _hate_ you! Why do you have to take them _all_?!"

Angelica was dumbfounded.

"Who?"

Salty resentment ruined her carefully applied makeup as Maggie poured out her jealous misery.

"The boys! Dandy! Michael!"

Angelica stared at her, aghast.

"I didn't _take_ anybody! They just . . . they just like to spend time with me, that's all."

Albeit innocently honest, it was definitely the wrong truth to tell.

Maggie's face shattered, nearly beastial in and of itself.

Angelica tensed, certain the other girl was going to launch herself at her in her white hot tirade.

Instead, she continued screaming.

"I _hate_ you! Why do you have to take everything and leave me with _nothing_?! You're not even that pretty! You don't even _want_ them! They follow you like _dogs_ , sniffing your skinny little ass! "

And the girl stomped off, weeping loudly and shoving aside people coming to her distraught aid.

Including the aforementioned boys she had been so dramatically pining for.

Michael, shorter and gentler of the two, sent careening straight into Ima Wiggles' more than generous bosoms, so heaving with remnants of fried chicken . . .

"Hey, honey, not while I'm dining! This is the good stuff!"

. . . and the taller, stouter Dandy stumbled into a clearly delighted Liz . . .

"Oooh, sailor, if you wanted a lady's attentions, all you have to do is ask!"

. . . as the other performers rubbernecked around their postshow chores to see the newest performance.

"What the _hell_ is going on?!" Ethel Darling demanded moments later, storming backstage. "I was out there, gladhanding and encouraging people to come back to our show and I hear all this cursing and shouting. Probably cost us more than a few tickets tomorrow night!"

Angelica could only stammer out her confusion.

As Ethel listened.

The picture coming painfully clear.

And huffed in frustration.

 _Teenagers._

* * *

 **Ah, the joys of the teenage years, right? *rolls eyes* I truly wouldn't go back for _anything_. Unless I could know then what I know now.**

 **Anyway, thanks to DinahRay, King Reese's, and anonymouscsifan (yep, you caught me, couldn't help it) for those great reviews!**

 **Thanks also to meow333333 (cute penname but played havoc on my math dyslexia, ha) for adding your support to this story as well.**


	21. Love for Sale

I do not own American Horror Story: Freak Show.

And for once, I honestly can't think of what to say here, ha.

Beauty and the Beast: A Freak Show Fairy Tale

'Love' for Sale

* * *

Another evening, another performance.

Another clapping of hands, another sweeping bow offstage.

Big smile, flirtatious wave.

The end.

Except it wasn't the end.

It never really was.

For outside the big top, another performance was beginning to take shape.

A parade of sorts.

A secret parade.

Not with banners and tickertape and trumpets on sunlit Main Street.

But a casual, subtle parade of flesh.

In the dim side alleys created by rows of tents and trailers.

Women flesh.

Men flesh.

Questionable flesh sold to questionable buyers.

All for a price.

Whatever price.

Dollars. Dimes. Pence.

Ethel Darling, proprietor of the Darling Carnival of Wonders, she of the bearded chin and shrewd businessmind, still was no freak show brothel Madame.

She only let the carnies take matters into their own hands, mouths, and whatever other orifices they chose.

Pocketing their own money.

And making their own peace with the remaining fractured remnants of their own souls.

It was not up to her to make their choices for them.

In whatever directions they chose to sway.

Only provide a show beforehand and a turned away eye later to let carnies make do for themselves.

So if a man or woman of the troupe chose to offer their, how to say, _bodily_ services, that was their choice and not hers to make.

Elsa Mars, however, felt a little differently.

Having begun her own sexual explorations quite young.

Perhaps too young some might say.

And thusly, lacking the empathy others might choose to employ.

"So, my dear," she'd casually approach Angelica from time to time. "When will you start standing on your own two feet and making some money for yourself?"

Angelica tried to play dumb at first.

"Thought I was. Standing on my own two feet."

And Elsa would huff, cruel eyes sly.

"Oh excuse me, I misspoke. I mean 'lying on your back'."

Angelica's eyes would narrow.

And that mouth, that pink bow mouth Michael recently had become all too aware of, would speak coldly.

"I don't really think that's any of your business, Elsa."

Elsa's spiteful sneer a prelude to her words.

"Think your garden's too fresh and delicate to be plowed for a quick dollar?"

And, like a slinking serpent catching the scent of a mouse, would appear Maggie Esmeralda.

"Oh no, Elsa, she's just too special and clean and pure to be common like the rest of us. Princess and her knight in furry wolfhair."

Maggie, who since the 'incident' had slid further and further into the ugly muck of lower carnie life.

Sloppily drunk. Willing to spread her legs to anyone with any coin at all.

And bitingly, ruthlessly cruel with her words.

Vindictive with her hazel eyes.

Even going so far as to insinuate to Ethel that maybe, just maybe, she'd forget her underthings sometime during a show.

"Oh come on, Ethel, think of the shock we'd give the townfolk!" she'd coo. "Bring in a full house every night just to see if all the naughty bits were on display!"

Ethel's piercing blue eyes would narrow dangerously.

"What we got here is a family show, girl. Even Elsa's got to rein in those saucy hips. You pull a stunt like that and I'll pull you off the show and have you mucking out the latrine for a month!"

Maggie would pout and flounce off, muttering to herself about art and the natural state of the human body.

And Ethel Darling would sit on the steps of her tired old caravan and smoke a cig in the darkness.

And Angelica, well, Angelica would take herself away to her own spaces, wondering how long it would be before she would be forced to sell her soul.

And be just like everyone else.

Wondering why she should even care. Especially when no one else seemed to.

And Michael.

Michael would keep his dark eyes on her, only her.

Promising himself Angelica would be safe.

Always safe.

No matter what.

* * *

 **Something of a setup chapter here. Some stuff's about to go down.**

 **Thanks to DinahRay, King Reeses, and anonymouscsifan for your reviews.**

 **Thanks also whteritis2 for adding your support.**

 **See you again soon.**


	22. Lust and the Darkness

I do not own American Horror Story: Freak Show.

And here . . . we . . . go!

Beauty and the Beast: A Freak Show Fairy Tale

Lust and the Darkness

* * *

The fairway was dark, carnival finally shut down for the evening.

The tonight's show had gone well.

Which was good.

And now it was over.

Which was also good.

She strode easily through the clutter of tents and trailers, looking for him.

She hadn't seen him since she had run off to help Elsa with her snakes.

And now she missed him.

And was looking for him.

Still decked out in her performance clothes.

Bright red and gold bustier. Layered, flouncy, Wild West dancing girl skirt.

Heeled up witch boots. Mini top hat sitting at a jaunty angle atop softly curled blond tresses.

There was a light breeze and being mildly aware of her partially exposed bosom area (or lack thereof, according to Elsa), she'd draped herself in a long, black shawl patterned with roses.

Which insisted on slipping from her frail shoulders everytime she pulled it back over them.

The breeze causing her blond tresses to dance on the air currents.

She was beautiful and ethereal and mystical and untouched.

And hunted.

A shambling figure stepped out of the shadows, swayed unsteadily before her.

"Hey, girlie."

It was one of ogglers from the show that evening.

A town man, just shy of being drunk enough to walk in front of a train. One of those who wrongly thought everything he said and did was golden rain.

She _despised_ those men.

Especially when they came sulking around after the show, sniffing for carnie tail.

And the carnie tail, in need of money for essentials like food and clothes and replenishments of opium, gave them what they wanted.

And pretended it didn't steal a little piece of their souls every single time.

She was fifteen now, prime carnie tail.

And so far had been able to avoid such intimate entanglements from town men. Or any men.

Up until now.

"Been looking for you," the man slurred. "Thought we could take a little stroll to your trailer. Have some friendly 'get to know you' time."

He smiled, full of slovenly charm and whiskey-saturated wit.

He was repulsive.

But she was a carnie.

And carnies knew how to work the rubes.

"Sorry, honey," she cooed, drawing her shawl around her a little tighter. "But I'm off limits tonight. All busied up with a, um, 'lady-friend' visitor for a few days."

A lie. But a well-rehearsed one.

She moved to walk around him, false charm dripping from her words.

"I'm sure you'd be quite the gentleman caller though. Next time maybe, sugar."

 _Like hell_.

But her newest admirer would not be so easily dismissed.

Ran a sweaty hand through his dark, greasy mat of hair.

"Oh, I don't mind. Can't catch pregnant that way. Just makes you sexier."

And he caught her arm.

"Let's go."

She dropped her pretense at manners, charming affect flattening.

"Let go, honey. I'm not for sale. Find somebody else."

His rank body odor washed over her, foul and alcoholic.

"Don't want nobody else, sweetheart. You're my catch tonight."

She narrowed her eyes.

"I told you. No."

The drunken man's inebriation proved to make him a cruel, rough drunk instead of a tottering clown or a sleeping whale.

His fingers tightened painfully on her arm, as he pulled her towards him.

"You're a carnie _whore_ ," he spat into her face, enveloping her in a rank stench. "And carnie whores don't _get_ to say _no_!"

She pushed away from him, face slanting into her own rage and disgust.

"I can say no to whoever I want to! And I'd never screw you, you filthy _bastard_!"

He growled in outrage and shoved her suddenly, slamming her back into the metal side of a trailer with a discordant clang.

Pain lanced through her lower back as something stabbed into it.

Her shout of alarm was reduced to a exhalation of breath by the sudden pain pelting throughout her slender frame.

"And I'll screw you up to my ankles right here and right now if I want!"

He pulled her toward him, smashing his lips against hers, cutting her upper on her own teeth.

Bile rose in her throat at the taste of him.

And the thought of any of his hot, putrid flesh touching any of hers.

Then he drew back and slammed her even harder against the trailer.

And this time she did cry out as the pain in her body intensified and she lost her breath.

And the feeling in her legs.

"I'm gonna teach you to respect a _man_ , you carnie _whore_!"

But he didn't.

Because at that moment, he was wretched back from her and thrown to the ground.

She collapsed in an unceremonious heap, breath hitching in little, erratic gasps and wheezes.

The edges of her vision flickering as the pain threatened to close in and engulf her.

But she did see a little.

She saw Michael.

Michael with his hands locked around the bastard's throat, fingers sunk deep in the reddening flesh.

Snarling, growling deep in his throat, sound that made Angelica's blood run cold.

It was not a sound made by a teenage boy.

Or the man he would one day grow into if he lived.

It was the sound of an animal.

Of a beast.

Jerking the man's head up and slamming it viciously back down onto the ground.

Hunched down close, eye to eye.

And growling as if he were going to rip out his throat out with his bare teeth.

Which he just might have.

"Michael, no!" Angelica gasped, the sound barely more than a breath as she began to lose consciousness.

And a gunshot boomed overhead.

* * *

 **Cliffhanger!**

 **Don't hate me ;)**

 **Thanks to King Reeses, DinahRay, and anonymouscsifan for your encouraging reviews on that setup chap.**

 **Thanks also to Myriade for adding your support to this story.**


	23. Smoking Gun

I do not own American Horror Story: Freak Show.

And here . . . we . . . go!

Beauty and the Beast: A Freak Show Fairy Tale

Smoking Gun

* * *

And there stood Ethel Darling.

Curly brown performance wig discarded for her own thinning gray hair.

Broad, lumpy body wrapped in a faded blue robe.

Fluffy bunny slippers on her big, flat feet.

Holding a sawn-off shotgun in her rough, plump hands, tendrils of smoke curling into the cool night air.

A spotlight cutting through the darkness, bathing her in impromptu center stage could not have made them pay her more mind.

Even the feraled Michael halted and looked up.

"Now that's enough of that."

Her hard-edged voice (and the gun) brooked no argument.

"Get up, boy. And let him go."

Slowly, looking warily back and forth from the gun to its owner, Michael rose.

The drunk he had been strangling staggered heavily to his feet, clutching his now swollen throat.

"'Bout time you showed up," he rasped. "And took control of your damn watchdog."

Ethel smiled thinly.

"He ain't the one I'm drawing aim on, mister."

The man's unfocused eyes swam in concussion.

When he spoke, his words slurred, thick and sloppy from his mouth.

"What? Why? 'Cause of her? She's for sale, ain't she? Just like the rest of 'em!"

Ethel's mouth drew down.

"She's for sale if she _says_ she's for sale."

She cast her gaze around at the three of them dryly.

And succinctly restated the situation.

"And apparently, she said she ain't. You disagreed. And he," she motioned her chin toward the boy, still standing between the would be rapist and the fallen girl. "disagreed with you."

Michael remained in attack stance. Head slightly lowered, eyes nearly glinting. Hands curled halfway to claws. Teeth bared.

And a low growl rumbling in throughout his body.

The silence hung in the air for a split second before Angelica's assailant rent it with his own scratched, guttural bark.

"If I'm such a monster, why not just let your dogboy here tear out my jugular, then?"

Ethel raised a sardonic eyebrow.

"Because I don't want your filthy blood on his young hands," she replied matter of factly.

And without a blink, chambered another round in the shotgun.

" _I_ , on the other hand," her thin smile returned, now darker than ever. "Have no qualms at all about blowing a hole in your head so big I could throw a baseball through it."

Then she spoke her final words to him.

"Now if I ever see your ugly bastard face around my carnival or my employees again, no one will _ever_ find all your parts."

The man opened his mouth, readying a no doubt scathing reply.

Looked into Ethel Darling's ice cold baby blue eyes.

And closed his mouth for good.

In the wake of the sudden screaming, shouting, and shotgun blasting, a silent, watchful crowd had gathered on the periphery of the chaos.

A mixture of loyal carnie and faceless townfolk.

All awaiting the final word and judgement of Ethel Darling.

The carnies would act to her order without hesitation.

For they were her people, her family.

And family protect their own.

The few townfolk, mostly men, would never dare breathe a word of the incident to anyone.

For how could they speak on Sunday morning of what they had surely not been there to witness on Saturday night?

"Dandy," Ethel called quietly into the darkness behind her.

The tall, lanky form of Dandy Mott, sword swallower extraordinaire and wooer of women, melted out of the shadows.

Such a handsome face, he could have been a playboy. Or a wealthy heir to a fortune.

Except the lure of the carnival had called him from a young age to run away and make something divine of himself.

"Yes, Ethel?"

His voice was serene, calm.

As butter melting down a nice, fat Porterhouse.

"Escort our guest here to town and set his feet on Main Street," the bearded lady directed, her gaze sharp and cutting at the rapidly sobering drunk.

"See he understands he's never to grace our establishment again. Wherever we are."

Dandy nodded, though Ethel could not see the movement behind her.

"Yes, ma'am."

As he passed her, she muttered low, almost indistinct.

"Not a mark, son. Not again, hear me?"

Dandy smiled, the glinting eyes and hungry teeth of a playful shark.

"Yes, ma'am."

Ethel surreshed once more.

"I mean it now."

He moved easily toward the man, lithe form belying the tautness and strength of his wiry muscles.

"Yes, ma'am."

Their now exiled guest, terrified and suddenly docile, made no move to resist.

But simply shrank back at the smooth, predatory approach of the still harem-garbed youth.

Dandy stopped before him. Bowed slightly. Small, dangerous smile playing about his lips. Welcoming flights of fearful fantasies.

And coolly swept out a welcoming hand in the direction of town.

His voice was cordial, yet chilling.

"After you, of course."

There was a split second of uncertainty as to whether the convicted would rage, faint, piss himself, or walk.

In the end, he walked.

Only when they were gone, and reluctantly then, did Ethel lower her gun.

And Michael's alert stance relaxed.

He instantly turned to Angelica.

Still laying gasping and shuddering in a heap on the ground.

Less than five minutes had passed since Ethel had fired a warning shot into the air.

For her it had been an eternity of numbness in her lower extremities.

And lightening pain everywhere else.

As well as a virulent lack of oxygen in her constricted lungs.

Now Michael knelt before her, face drawn with worry and fear.

"Can't . . . feel . . . legs . . ."

He hunched down, closer to her.

And part of her, illogical and wounded, wanted to scream at him.

Not to hunker so, like dog, like a beast.

But to stand upright and proud.

Be a human. Be a man.

Just so they would quit teasing her, quite teasing him.

But it was a little part, a small, childish part.

The rest of her, just as childish and illogical, wanted him to take her in his arms.

Hold her close.

Comfort her.

Protect her.

Keep her safe.

And he did, without her asking aloud.

Knelt down.

Gathered her bird-light weight against his chest.

Arms under her knees and encircling her back, hands pressed to thigh and shoulder.

And rose.

Her head nearly limp on his collarbone, trembling arms clinging around him.

Shawl trailing, blood dripping from a gash in her lower back.

Hair tangled and flying. Hat flung off and lost.

And her wolfboy, her protector, Michael, held her close and safe.

Lowered his head down to hers.

Nuzzling, comforting.

Loving.

Without sound, without words.

For he needed none.

"Alright, you all get back to business," Ethel commanded the gathered spectators. "Get done what needs doing and go on home. Early morning tomorrow."

In the dead of night, with a smoking shotgun and a henchman with a soul full of murder, she had no need to speak twice.

With careful steps and quiet murmurings, they went.

And Ethel, her face dark and grim, turned to the Angel-Faced Wolfboy.

"Bring her to my caravan."

* * *

 **Yeah, you knew she'd be rescued. Can't stand the thought of rape and will probably never write it. So, yeah.**

 **Anyway, thanks to DinahRay, King Reeses, and anonymouscsifan (yep, Stevie Nicks, you nailed it!) for hanging in there. :)**


	24. Quiet Repose

I do not own American Horror Story: Freak Show.

But my newborn is decidedly hairy.

Beauty and the Beast: A Freak Show Fairy Tale

Quiet Reprieve

* * *

The banging shut of the heavy, wooden door jarred Angelica out of her half-conscious state.

Still slumped weakly in Michael's now trembling arms, racked with pain, head swirling with dizziness.

The caravan was dark, lonely.

Ethel moved quickly and efficiently through it, lighting lamps and gathering materials.

"Lay her there," she directed.

The boy, his shoulder length hair flyaway and wild, eased her down onto the pallet.

Throated something soothing, comforting, back at her cries of pain at the movement.

He knelt before her, eyes trained unwaveringly on her face.

"Move over," came the bearded lady's voice behind him.

He did not respond.

"Boy."

Or move.

"Michael."

And she nudged him, none too gently.

He tossed a growl over his shoulder, long slumbered feral nature still awakened and heightened by the attack on Angelica.

Ethel's face shadowed into his peripheral vision.

"Don't you growl at me, boy. I know you can talk. And you know I'm just trying to take care of her. If you'll move your ass."

He remained as he was for a moment, searching for consent in Angelica's pained eyes.

Then moved aside for Ethel Darling.

But not far.

* * *

"Well, the good news is, it's not as bad as it probably feels," the bearded caregiver announced some time later.

Both the wounded patient and her steadfast wolfboy stared at Ethel Darling silently.

She continued.

"You fell against a nail, tore up your back something fierce."

Ethel wiped her hands on the dampened, blood-spotted cloth.

"But there'll be no permanent damage. Not like a knife to the belly or getting your hand cut off."

Angelica lay as still as she could. The pain still raking its nails lovingly across what seemed to be every single one of her nerves.

It didn't _feel_ like a minor injury.

But the sensation in her toes was coming back.

So that was something.

"You'll need to heal for a few days. You can stay here until you feel like moving."

Ethel made her as comfortable as possible, tucking sheets, adjusting pillows.

"You need to rest."

She glanced over at Michael, only feet away. Seemed about to suggest leaving the girl alone to recover.

Dismissed the notion as an obvious exercise in futility.

"Well, I'd better go see if Dandy got back yet. And what's under his fingernails."

Heaved herself to her weary feet with a groan.

Looked back and forth between the two of them.

Seemed to answer her own silent questions.

Nodded, ladled out a wan smile to each of them.

And left.

Quiet fell up the caravan. Crickets chirped outside the open window.

Lamplight flickered from spindly tables.

Angelica looked over at Michael. He was watching her, deep concern in his dark eyes.

She reached out a hand to him and he moved toward her, grasping it gently.

"You saved me," she whispered.

He nodded.

"How did you know where to find me?"

He shrugged without a hint of sheepishness to his honest demeanor.

"Followed you."

She smiled despite the rampant weariness in her aching body.

"But _I_ was looking for _you_."

He smiled and said nothing.

"You almost killed that guy."

He did not reply. He did not need to. There was really no argument against the fact. Or admission of guilt.

Wolves do not feel guilty for protecting their mates.

And neither should humans.

She yawned, eyelids suddenly heavy. Adrenaline finally draining out of her pores.

"I'm tired. I need to sleep."

He nodded and his grasp on her fingers began to slacken. She gripped them tightly, refusing to allow him to let her go.

"Stay with me."

It wasn't a command. But a desperate plea for comfort, companionship. Thinly veiled in a voice that was only barely calm and collected.

For him.

Him who nodded and stayed where he was, connected only by their linked fingers.

Angelica tugged him forward, her usually independent nature overwhelmed by the horrific events of the evening.

"No. Here. With me. Please?"

He willingly complied, climbing carefully onto the narrow pallet behind her.

Rounding his strong, warm body into hers. Pillowing her head and upper body into the safe embrace of his comforting arms. Nuzzling his face down into the silken fall of her long hair.

She furthered their entanglement by wrapping her own arms around his, fingers lightly gripping his flesh.

Almost immediately, their bodily rhthyms synchronized. Skin warming, fusing pleasantly together. Lungs expanding and contracting at the same pace, hearts beating as one.

Angelica sighed, the remainder of the tension draining itself from her mind and body.

And allowing her to escape her fright and pain.

And sleep.

And Michael, her Angelfaced Wolfboy, slept as well. Though wakeful and alert even in the depths of his slumber, keeping watch over her all through the long night.

Ethel Darling returned in the wee hours to check on her patient. Saw the pair. Observed them for a few moments, a tender smile she didn't know was there softening her blunt features.

And then she went as quietly as she had come.

And left them alone.

* * *

 **Sweet and sappy, maybe? Hopefully not too much. But then again, who cares, right? ;)**

 **Thanks to the ever supportive DinahRay and anonymouscsifan (you and King Reeses need to hang out and formulate some wicked cool torture plans, yeah?) and King Reeses (reverse previous statement) for your reviews.**


	25. Wolfy Guardian Angel

I do not own American Horror Story: Freak Show.

And I wish I had a pool. Well, you'll get it.

Beauty and the Beast: A Freak Show Fairytale

Wolfy Guardian Angel

* * *

The day was lazy, blue sky clear.

And the small hidden waterhole she'd discovered perfectly warm and cool at the same time.

She floated there, uninhibited, letting all her thoughts and worries and cares drain out of her toes.

Until she was free and light as a feather.

Ten minutes, no more.

Just ten good minutes.

Then she'd get back to the neverending chores and lists and duties of preparing for tonight's show.

But for now, she floated.

Birds chirped, squirrels argued with one another over ownership of forest nuts.

And Angelica Mayweather floated.

Her unadorned body caressed and enveloped by the warm and cool currents.

Silken tresses haloing her head as her arms drifted out from her sides.

Her fingers mindlessly curling and uncurling the strings of her life.

It was bliss.

It was heaven.

It was time to go back.

She opened her eyes.

Gazed up at the puffy white clouds overhead.

And sighed.

She would be 'handling' the Angelfaced Wolfboy tonight.

She didn't know how it would go.

She wanted the world to see his mystery.

His beauty.

Her pride in him.

She only hoped when they clapped and cheered, it would bring him joy tonight instead of shame and humiliation.

The act was fun. For both of them.

Or had been.

Lately he'd seemed slightly moody after the shows, as if something was bothering him.

But he wasn't talking.

And she was growing tired of waiting.

She stood up in the hip deep water.

Reached up and squeezed some water from her long, straight hair.

Her clothes were folded neatly on the shore, along with her towel.

She turned.

And saw him.

Michael.

Crouched behind a blueberry bush, peering at her.

His dark eyes open wide, drinking her in.

In all her bare glory.

He averted them as she gasped, ducking herself back into the water.

" _Michael!_ What are you _doing_ here?!"

He didn't answer, only hunkered down out of immediate sight.

She knew he wouldn't speak until she made him.

So she swam to shore, keeping herself as much under the water as possible.

Wrapped herself in the towel. And approached him.

"Michael," she repeated, much quieter and gentler. "What are you doing here?"

He did not look up, only concentrated on the stick scratching at the dirt between his shoes.

"Protecting you," he replied, voice barely more than a husky whisper. "So no one can hurt you."

She knelt carefully, long dripping hair curtaining her oval face.

Touched a gentle hand to his chin.

Made him look into her eyes.

"Michael, you don't have to worry. No one is going to hurt me."

He gazed at her.

"No."

It was not an answer but a self-assured statement.

One of the few things he ever seemed sure of.

And she found herself asking her own question.

"How often do you . . . watch over me?"

He didn't answer right away but glanced here and there around her general vicinity.

And finally back to her.

"Every time," he admitted. "To keep you safe."

She found her fingers caressing his slightly scruffy jawline.

She thought of the devotion to always be vigilant for another.

To never falter, never fail them.

She leaned forward and pecked his lips, quick and light.

"Thank you for looking out for me," she whispered.

And as his eyes darkened further, she rose, still clutching the damp towel around her.

His face dropped down and away from her again.

She began to move toward her clothes.

Then turned back.

"Michael?"

He looked up again.

A shy smile wafted across her face.

"How often you watch _me_?"

He grinned back, dimples embarassed.

"Well, you are very beautiful."

She knew she shouldn't smile back.

It was an invasion of privacy, really.

But that face, those eyes.

His care and sincerity.

And she smiled anyway, cheeks reddening as she tucked her wet hair behind one ear and turned away.

She dressed quickly then as he carefully kept his eyes averted from her, studying only the area around them.

Then they walked back to camp.

Together.

Not touching.

But together.

* * *

She floated up out of the dream slowly, smoothly.

Her hazy dream-like remembrance of that afternoon melting away as she became aware of the real world around her once more.

She hadn't moved yet so the aches and pains of her attack were distant and muted. Unimportant for now.

And she could appreciate other things.

Better things.

Softer things.

The relaxed darkness of the caravan.

The comfort of the pallet.

Early morning birds chattering outside.

The warmth and comfort of Michael's body resting easily against hers.

His breath deep and even.

Eyes closed again, she moved her head lazily against his arm and his embrace tightened just a little. As if drawing her close. Wanting to protect her, even in sleep.

She smiled.

And decided to stay still a little while longer.

So they did.

* * *

 **Nothing big and wild here, nope. 'Cause sometimes you just gotta take a break.**

 **Hopefully Michael's vigilance didn't come across as creepy here. It really wasn't meant to.**

 **Anyway, thanks to King Reeses, DinahRay, Cherryfreckles00, and anonymouscsifan for those lovely reviews!**

 **Thanks also to Squintz18 for adding your support to this story.**


	26. Convalescing

I do not own American Horror Story: Freak Show.

But we're still going strong. Yeah!

Beauty and the Beast: A Freak Show Fairytale

Convalescing

* * *

The first day, it hurts too much to move.

After a long, internal talking-to, part scolding and part pep-talk, Angelica forces herself to do it anyway.

The world goes gray. Turns sideways.

The tears come, in a hot and unrelenting flood.

Michael holds and murmurs. Never once lets go.

* * *

The second day is better.

She manages to sit upright, and Ethel rewards her with a steaming mug of coffee.

Rich and strong and clearly brewed by angels in heaven above.

Angelica voices an appreciative little groan. Michael, sitting cross-legged and watchful on the floor beside the pallet, grins at her.

Ethel snorts, and nudges at his knee with the tip of her stout brown brogan.

"Don't suppose I'm gonna get any work outta you today," she grumbles, arms crossed.

"Nope," the Wolf Boy agrees.

His eyes stay on Angelica.

"Thought not," the bearded woman sighs. She returns to her hotplate, and pours warm water from the teakettle into a metal basin. "But you need to leave a while, just the same. Miss Lady here needs a cleanin' up."

"He's seen it all already," Angelica almost blurts, blushing. Thinking of the little lake. But she bites her tongue in time, and takes another sip of coffee.

As Michael scrambles to his feet, he brushes his mouth against the top of Angelica's head, so softly that she's not sure she really even felt it. By the time Ethel's gathered up her sponge and the big white bar of Ivory Soap, the screen door is closing behind him.

* * *

He finds Dandy in the big tent, rehearsing alone. Tall and straight, brandishing his swallowing-swords with a flourish. Carving patterns into the air. He watches silently until the showman makes an extravagant bow toward the rows of empty wooden chairs.

"Did you kill him?" Michael asks.

Dandy lays his weapons carefully on the wooden stage floor. Ignores the stairs and jumps down gracefully to stand beside Michael on the ground. He examines his pristine fingernails. Puts his hands in his pockets, and shakes his head regretfully.

"I wanted to. But Ethel convinced me that even a piece of garbage like that might have someone who'd come looking, and they'd trace him back here. Bring the cops."

Michael glares at him, scowling. Unexpectedly, Dandy answers with a gentle little smile.

"We'd've had to pack up and leave right then, Michael. Before they could find the body. She was too hurt to be moving."

The scowl remains, but Michael slowly nods. Then sighs.

"Did you hurt him?" he asks.

And in a flash the gentleness is gone, replaced by the predatory gleam of a hungry, handsome shark.

Dandy laughs. "You can't even imagine."

Michael stands, considering, his dark eyes searching the aristocratic face.

"Thank you," he says at last.

And walks away.

* * *

The third day brings visitors in a steady stream. They trickle into the little caravan and eddy out again.

Quiet Suzy, with her knitting. Loquacious Eve, who brushes Angelica's hair one hundred careful strokes. ("Just like the movie stars do!")

Gentleman Paul, hat in hand, and Dandy with a riot of fresh-picked wildflowers and some new-old corny jokes.

Little Toulouse brings a tray of food from the cook tent, and smiling Ima a Photoplay magazine with Rita Hayworth on the cover.

The rousties stumble through the door in awkward knots of two or three at once.

Even haughty Elsa, who can't bear to be left out of anything, comes to call.

Only Maggie stays away.

By evening, Angelica's wounded back is on fire. Her head buzzes with the need for quiet stillness.

"Time to go now," Ethel says to the last of them, shooing. "She needs her rest."

As Evie departs, Michael holds the screen door for her, then slips quietly inside.

Ethel's mouth is opening to tell him that visiting hours are over.

But right before her eyes, Angelica's shoulders relax. The exhaustion on her face drops away, smile kindling, as he moves toward her, reaching out his hand.

Not now, Ethel tells herself. Not yet.

Deep down she knows it isn't smart, isn't safe, letting them lie down together this way.

Young bodies want to translate, long to speak, what young hearts feel.

Hell, even -she- was young once. She well remembers how it aches.

She holds her tongue.

Just watches as he carefully lowers himself beside Angelica. Gathers her close.

She sees the peace that washes over them both, paints their faces. They look like little children in a fairy tale. Lost innocents clinging together against the big, bad scary world.

She should really put a stop to it, for their own good.

But maybe not tonight.

* * *

 **Loving this new chapter by DinahRay! Your writing is such a pleasure to read!**

 **Thanks to the aforementioned DinahRay, King Reeses, Bumblebee93, and anonymouscsifan for your reviews on my previous chapter.**

 **Thanks also to Ladybug123 and Candyluver2121 for adding your support to the story.**


	27. Heroes and Healing

I do not own American Horror Story: Freak Show.

I do have great friends!

Beauty and the Beast: A Freak Show Fairytale

Heroes and Healing

For NotMarge

* * *

Every morning it pains her just a little less.

Right up until it's time for Ethel to clean the wound, deep and tender-raw.

It hurts like hellfire. Every time.

Even though she knows it's coming.

Prepared and braced and reminding herself that she's tough as rawhide.

Until she has to bow her head and squeeze hard at Michaels's offered hands.

Blink back the tears that rise, despite her best intentions, and trickle down her nose, hot and shameful.

Defeated by the pain.

Ashamed of her weakness.

Again.

Michael can only hold his breath, and watch Ethel's fingers as they work.

"All done," she announces at last. "It's looking better. No more infection."

When the tears stop and Angelica's breathing evens, she swipes at her face and pulls away.

Won't look at Michael. Turns her back on him and jerks away from his tentative touch.

It hurts like hellfire. Every time.

Even though he knows it's coming.

"Run on to the cooktent and bring her back somethin' good," Ethel orders, and Michael reluctantly rises. Angelica doesn't protest, even though her stomach is roiling and she couldn't eat if she tried.

When the screen door closes behind him, Ethel sighs.

"There's no shame in cryin', Angel. You're cut-the ones that love you ain't gonna blame you for bleedin'. You don't have to be tough every single minute, you know."

"You are," the girl hiccups.

Ethel gently cups one broad hand on the top of Angelica's head.

"I'm not," she says flatly. "And anyhow, you ain't me. Thank the lord for small favors."

* * *

Michael puzzles at the grins and waves and little gestures of triumph that greet him as he makes his way through the carnival grounds.

"The man of the hour!" Ima calls from her place at the clothesline, blowing him a kiss.

Chester the roustabout catches up to him and claps him on the back so hard he stumbles. He raises Michael's arm above his head, like a winning prize-fighter's, and bellows, whiskey-breathed: "Mikey boy! You old asshole-kicker! Ya done good, son!"

Michael smiles uncertainly and ducks away.

He reaches the cooktent, with its mid-day swarm of hungry carnies, and flinches at the cacophony of spoons clacking against tin mugs. Paul climbs onto a wooden picnic table and plants his boots among the plates.

"Here here! A round of cheers for a job well done by one of our own, aye? To Michael!"

The cries ring out, a chorus of hoorays.

And that is how Michael the Angel Faced Wolf Boy learns, to his never-ending surprise, that he is some kind of hero.

* * *

With time and care, Angelica Mayweather recovers.

Within a week she has moved out of Ethel's caravan and back into the trailer she shares with Michael and Suzi.

She walks there.

Slowly.

On numb and wobbly legs.

One arm around Michael's shoulder, and the other around Evie's waist.

Breathing shallow against the pain.

"Let me carry you," Michael urges, for the third time.

And she wants nothing more than to let him.

Let her legs fold beneath her.

Knowing that he'll catch her before she ever nears the ground.

Hold her, protected and weightless and not in pain.

"No," she says.

Grits her teeth and walks on, even as the tears are rising.

She smiles at her Wolf Boy.

Sniffs hard, and holds her head up high.

The carnies line the way, and cheer them both.

* * *

 **I am so honored to have DinahRay dedicate such an enjoyable chapter to me! And all because I was clumsy enough to break my finger.**

 **FYI: Cleaning is bad, kiddos, cleaning is bad.**

 **But seriously, thanks, sweetie!**

 **Thanks also to gentle readers and reviewers, King Reeses and anonymouscsifan for reviewing!**

 **Thanks also to LanaPage, Freya Hawthorne and Chloeauslly for adding your support to this tale!**


	28. Mama Ethel

I do not own American Horror Story: Freak Show.

Or a wolf.

Beauty and the Beast: A Freak Show Fairytale

Mama Ethel

* * *

"You haven't always been tough?"

Ethel looks up from her silent Emily Dickinson, unaware that the girl had awoken.

It's dark now and quiet.

The lights are low.

The end of the day when you think back on your life.

And have to decide if you can live with the things you've done.

Angelica's probing, dark eyes search her soul.

Ethel fleets a small smile.

"No," she replies simply.

And closes her thin tome.

She sits there in her blue and white pokadotted dress.

And decides what she is going to say to this young slip of a girl.

And what she will not.

"Believe it or not," she begins wryly. "I was a young girl like you once."

Emabarrased, Angelica begins to stammer an unnecessary apology.

Which Ethel waves away.

Then her blue eyes grow distant as she wanders back to the time when she was younger. And full of hope.

"I was free and independent and young and wild once," she relates to the convalescing girl. "Not much older than you."

"Had my own show. Sort of a burlesque type thing."

Memoried echoes of tinny, campy music.

"The pretty, skinny blonde things on either side of me, with their feathers and beads . . ."

The excitement, titillation of counting down, listening to the rhythm.

"And then I'd pop up in the middle of them. With my brown beard and my generous curves . . ."

The Ta-Da of the revelation.

"And they'd hoot and holler and laugh and clap . . ."

It filled her ears. She could almost see them again.

"But in a good way, the way you know you've caught their surprise, impressed them with your confidence. Made yourself the star of admiration, when before they thought it was going to be another one of those sweet, little, chickeepoos."

Her voice fades and she's quiet for a minute.

"Then I met a man, a charming, handsome strongman. Let him take control of me."

Her wistful gaze hardens as she travels the road of misfortune once again.

"He was well meanin' in his own way at first. But an ass of a man. A fool. Ruined my career. Ruined my life."

She draws a deep breath, let's it out quick. Like ridding herself of poison.

"Naw, that ain't true. He didn't do it to me; I let him. Out of schoolgirl foolishness. Ignorant love struck foolishness."

And watches her hands play upon the leather cover of the book in her lap.

"I got rid of him eventually, after my baby died. But I reckon it changed me. I felt sorry for myself for a long time. Took to the drink."

She wipes at her brimming eyes.

"Managed to pick myself up after a while. Now I got this carnival and all these people to be responsible for. Ain't quite got the time to feel sorry for myself."

Taking another deep breath, she looks at Angelica.

"You got a good 'un in that boy out there. He's young, you both are, and you got a lot yet to learn. Don't let him steal your mind. But it's okay to give him your heart. You take care of each other, keep your eyes open, use the brains God gave you,and I reckon you'll get on alright in this world."

Then Ethel runs out of words.

And Angelica can't find a single thing to say.

* * *

When Michael returns to her, Angelica is kinder, gentler to him than before.

When he tries to offer a hand, she does not turn away or rebuff him with a harsh word.

But simply smiles. Thanks him.

And perhaps even offers a small peck on the lips for his troubles.

He notices. Appreciates.

But doesn't make mention .

* * *

 **Hello, gentle readers! Super short chapter here, yes. And present tense, taking a chapter from DinahRay's lovely writing style if that's ok.**

 **Anyway, hope your 2017's going well so far, everyone!**

 **Thanks to Bumblebee93, anonymouscsifan, and King Reeses for your reviews. :)**


	29. For the Greater Good

I do not own American Horror Story: Freak Show.

Or a wolf.

Beauty and the Beast: A Freak Show Fairytale

For the Greater Good

* * *

For the next three weeks, life went on.

Angelica recovered.

Regained her strength and balance, step by step and day by day. Stared down her pain, until at last it turned tail and shrank away in defeat.

Michael nursed.

He cleaned and dressed Angelica's wound, at first under Ethel's direction and then, eventually, with only his own cautious hands. He walked beside her until she outgrew her wobbles, then stood at a distance, hands outstretched. Her finish line.

Ethel fretted.

She hid it well. But she heard the rubes who booed and grumbled each show when she had to announce that tonight no Wolf Boy would appear. She counted each dwindling take by the light of the lamp on her kitchen table. Counted the days until Angelica was healed and the show was again complete.

Maggie schemed.

Though she preferred to think of it as… _strategizing_. Whatever you wanted to call it, she saw her chance.

And decided to take it.

She knocked at Ethel's caravan door, arranging her face in a look of respectful concern.

"Hi, Ethel, can I come in?" The bearded woman snorted a laugh. "Surprised it took you this long," she answered, but she stepped aside and ushered the girl inside. "Coffee?"

Over steaming cups, Maggie pled her case. Ethel attended, stroking at her whiskers.

"…just until Angelica's better. For the good of the show-for everyone, really. I know we're losing money without the Wolf Boy act, and that hurts all of us, wouldn't you agree?"

Ethel poured more coffee into both their cups. Maggie smiled, and sipped, and continued.

"And Angelica is great, of course, but _Michael_ is the one they come to see. He's the one they're looking at, really. _Any_ girl could be onstage and it wouldn't make a bit of difference. So I thought I'd volunteer to help out, for the good of the show. Do the act with him, maybe even punch it up a little. What do you think?"

She batted her lashes and launched a dazzling smile.

It slowly wilted under the bearded woman's silent, even gaze.

"Ethel?" Maggie ventured at last.

"Let's ask Michael," Ethel replied.

(Well, hell. Not the answer she'd been hoping for. But let no one ever say that Margaret Wilmadeen Taylor Hull-nee McGill, currently Madame Esmerelda-couldn't think on her feet. She remembered the last man who underestimated her, pre-carnival: a jug-eared, doe-eyed young Marine, who woke up alone in a Reno hotel room.

Sans trousers.

And bankroll.

And comely new honkey-tonk-whirlwind-wedding-chapel wife.

Archie. Or, wait, was it Andy? Anyhow, what a dope.

The memory kindled her smile anew. Upped the wattage.)

"Well, of course!" she agreed. "But I'm sure he'll go along with whatever you think is best. It's your show after all, Ethel. It's the Darling Carnival of Wonders. You're the boss."

Ethel Darling planted her palms on her knees and heaved up. "I am," she agreed. " _I'm_ the boss."

She stomped her sturdy brown brogans to the caravan door, and leaned out to hail the first roustabout she laid eyes on. "You! Chester! Put that shovel down and go fetch Michael! Tell 'im the boss wants to see him."

* * *

Ten minutes later, Michael knocked at the door with one hand while he slapped at the dust on his pant legs with the other.

"C'mon in," Ethel called, and he stamped his boots on the metal step to knock the clinging sawdust off his soles. He stepped inside, wiping his sweaty forehead with his sleeve, and waited for his vision to adjust from the bright sun outside to the dim of the trailer. His face remained calm and open, but his eyes slewed nervously toward Maggie.

"Sweepin' out the show tent?" Ethel asked. He nodded, and swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing nervously.

"Sit," Ethel invited, and slid a cup of water across the tabletop toward him. He nodded his thanks and took the cup, but stayed on his feet as he drained it.

"Ok, suit yourself, sit or stand, sonnyboy. But listen. Miss Maggie Esmerelda here's got a proposition for ya."

His dark eyes went wide, and it was all Ethel could do to hold back a guffaw.

Maggie smiled coquettishly up at Michael, and ran her fingers through her blonde hair. .

"Don't look so nervous, silly. It's something good, I promise."

She took a breath, and began. She went on for a good long time, and he really did listen.

She talked about the carnival as a family, and his part in it as their newest adopted son. About Ethel, who took him in and fed and sheltered him, and the duty they all owed to her kindness. About the importance of everyone doing their part to keep the show afloat. About poor Angelica, so gravely injured through no fault of her own and trying her best to heal, but unable to do contribute until she could, which might be weeks and weeks yet. About the Wolf Boy's importance as the star of the show, the one that all the rubes came out to see. About the dollars they lost when he didn't appear, and the food that took away from their family table. And finally, modestly, about her willingness to perform with him, just for now, out of familial duty. And about his own duty, to let her.

Ethel sipped her coffee and bit her lip and tried to keep her eye-rolling to a minimum as she witnessed Madame Esmerelda's virtuoso performance. Watched Michael's face for a reaction, as Maggie all but told the boy he owed it to apple pie, America and the sweet Baby Jesus to take her into the act. Ethel Darling thought about the money the show was losing. The time passing by. About human beings and their stubborn, never-ending needs. About love, with all its wearying obligations. Its mysterious, sometimes unbreakable, bonds.

Michael listened until Maggie finally finished. She smiled up at him expectantly, all red lips and big eyes and hands clasped strategically right under her fetchingly heaving bosom. "Well?" she prompted, when he didn't speak. "What do you think?"

Michael looked from her face to Ethel's. He held the bearded woman's eyes for a long moment, then dipped his head in apology. Then the Wolf Boy looked back at pretty Maggie, still holding her pose.

"No," he said softly.

Maggie shook her head, smile undiminished. She had expected that he'd take a little convincing, and immediately launched into the next phase of her argument.

"But Michael, really, you ought to think about-"

"No," he repeated.

Then he turned his back and walked away.

* * *

The night sky was dark and full of stars.

No moon. No clouds.

Just stars.

And fireflies.

And grass was tall and unkempt.

It whispered secrets in their ears and tickled their bare toes.

The breeze sent cooling currents over their skin, refreshing after the long, hot day.

They had been there a while.

Side by side. Backs to the ground.

Quiet.

Still.

Lost in the stars. Lost in the wonder.

Just the two of them.

Michael, hands behind his head, cushioning the sore spot where she'd accidentally whopped him earlier.

"Sorry about your head."

Angelica, arms bent at her sides, fingers interlocked across her flat belly.

"'S okay. It doesn't hurt much."

She glanced over at him, just able to make out his figure in the dark.

"Liar."

He grinned into the night air. And didn't respond.

They resumed their quiet companionship.

"Michael?"

"Hmmm?"

"Tell me again."

"What?"

She nudged a sharp elbow into his ribs.

"You know. What Maggie said. And then what you said."

He sighed.

"It's too many words to tell again. She talks a lot."

"Then just tell me what _you_ said."

He turned his head to look into her face, a pale oval in the dark.

"I said 'no'."

Angelica smiled, and felt a little shiver of satisfaction. Ownership. Pride. And something else that she couldn't quite identify.

For a while they were peaceful again.

"Michael?"

"Hmmm?"

"Do you ever . . . do you ever think about doing something different in your life?"

He was quiet for a span.

"Sometimes I want to run the popcorn stand. Or the cotton candy."

"Why?"

"Because it makes people happy. They don't hiss and boo at popcorn and cotton candy. It makes them smile."

She thought about this.

"You would have to talk to them. Be outgoing."

"You could talk and take money. I can hand out the candy."

A comet zoomed across the night sky.

"Do you want to talk to Ethel about it?"

And another comet.

"No. Not yet."

And another.

"Okay."

The fireflies were fading away, leaving the stars and what appeared to be a meteor shower above them.

"Michael?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you."

"I love you too."

And then she kissed him.

And kept kissing him.

And he let her.

* * *

 **Okay, we decided to do a collaborative chapter here. I got the sweet little fluff at the bottom where DinahRay penned the real kickass meat of the chapter above.**

 **And I just dig what she's done so much, don't you?**

 **Boom! Drop the mic, Wolfboy!**

 **Thanks to anonymouscsifan and King Reeses for your reviews.**


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